MGS: The King's Company
by espresso de gecko
Summary: Chapter 34 is up! I'm on a roll! PLEASE! Read and Review! 'This is the third in the trilogy, accompanied by The Compilation and The American.'
1. Cell 36

chapter ONE: Cell 36

It took sixteen minutes. The car was parked outside the facility, a dim light falling over the front step of the building and a security camera staring in the three men's faces as they stepped out of the car and up to the entrance doors. There was a beep, signaling the recognition of their identification, and the door pushed itself open an inch. 

The three men stepped inside, a warm yellow light pouring over them, and the cold stinging morning falling away behind them. It was only 6:03, and the guard at the front desk started up, pulling his feet off the counter and peering through the Plexiglas window in the left wall that separated him from the three men.

"Mr. Allen," the guard said with a smile. Mr. Allen, the second man in the bunch – and the more exotically dressed with a heavy leather-hide coat and a navy scarf toiled about his neck – nodded and gave a subtle little wave as the two men beside him – both in government apparel and carrying side arms beneath their suit jackets, and noticing that one was not a man at all but a woman with short hair and stunning eyes – surveyed the hallway. Two military men were walking up the hall, exchanging nervous glances between each other once they saw Mr. Allen. "I hadn't expected seeing you here this morning," the guard said, trying to hide his worry.

Mr. Allen bobbed his head lightly and rolled his eyes, "Yes, I know, but I was hoping to get a look at the security. You know, make sure everything is up to par." At this, the two military men cleared their throats, and nearly stumbling, came to a halt before their guests. Mr. Allen turned to them and casually saluted. They put their heels together, straightened their backs, and stiffened their fingers at their brows. Mr. Allen waved down their gesture and turned back to the guard, who seemed to be searching for words, having not expected the prison's security advisor to show on his shift.

"Uh…you can take a look around, of course, sir," the guard said, putting up his hands and showing off his teeth in a giant smile. Mr. Allen waved, thanked him, and went down the hall. One of the military men, named Marshal, roughly brushed shoulders with the female associate of Mr. Allen's and turned to give them the finger after they'd passed. 

"What the fuck are they doing here?" he asked the guard, whose face became stern and apprehensive.

"Probably what he said," the guard returned. "Checking the security. Making sure you two are keeping watch over the cells, which you're clearly not doing." 

The two men turned on their heels and went back down the hall, turning into another corridor and splitting apart somewhere down the next. The guard kicked his heels back up on the counter, lounged back in his chair, and raised a magazine in front of his face as the three men stopped in front of a cell somewhere down an isolated hall.

One of Mr. Allen's associates slipped a key card through a small scanner beside the cell door – a slab entirely of steel – and read a number off to Mr. Allen who pressed a series of digits on a keypad beneath the scanner. There was a moment of waiting, and then the door let out a short hiss and opened itself up to the three who quickly slipped inside before closing the door behind them.

Ten minutes passed before the two military men returned to the entrance hall and peered into the little side room where the guard was kicked back, reading a magazine. One of them tapped impatiently on the Plexiglas and the guard dropped the magazine on the counter and looked at the two, annoyed.

"Where the fuck is Allen?" one of them asked, and the guard raised his shoulders and wrinkled the bridge of his nose. The two military men fell back against opposite walls of the hall and looked at each other. "He didn't come through here?" The one asked.

"Nope," the guard returned. 

"I didn't see him either," the other military man commented. "Why don't you look on your damn monitors, you little shit?" 

"There will be no need for that," Mr. Allen replied, coming back up the hallway. The two military men pushed off of the walls and the guard discarded his magazine in a small trashcan at his right. "We're here," he said, coming up to the three, who all looked as if they'd just been hit in the stomach with a pile of bricks. "Thanks for your hospitality. Everything looks secure," he said as they swept past the guard, the man and woman's heads held low, and a foul smell passing with them. The doors were triggered by the guard to unlock, and waving, Mr. Allen started out to greet the cold that waited on the front steps.

But, he stopped first, and turned on his heel.

"Oh," he said, facing Marshal who looked terribly frightened, "here's your key card." He flipped the card through the air and Marshal caught it in his arms. He looked at it oddly as Mr. Allen waved and walked into the brisk morning, the sun still low beyond the horizon and the moon still glowing like a giant snowflake in the sky.

Marshal remembered the rough little nudge from the female agent when they'd gone to pass him, when he'd given them the finger, and when he'd asked the guard why they were there. And then he knew why they were there, why they'd come. They'd come to see a prisoner. A prisoner in – Marshal checked the key card and cursed – cell 36. 

…Revolver Ocelot. 

The three were out the door when the guard finally sounded the alarm.

There were only three men on duty that morning. The prison was small and out of the way, never attracting attention. It harbored no more than ten men, all held under terribly heavy surveillance. They were never bathed, but were properly fed three times a day. In the guard's side room were more than thirty monitors, watching every single inch of the building – the outside, the inside, and everything in between. Any disruptions in technological security were immediately picked up and displayed before him, but because of the situation on that morning there was no expectation for a trick like that. 

Technology and heavy fortifications made the little nook of a prison impenetrable, which granted for the lack of manpower. And, seeing as Mr. Allen was the security advisor himself, there was no reason for any of the men on duty to suspect him of pulling a trick like that. But, they had not expected that someone who could slip a key card out of your pocket and continue walking on before you could do so much as blink would be with him, or that his intentions would be wrong in the first place.

But, it was because the three on duty that morning had assumed Mr. Allen's intentions were good, that a half an hour later their visitors took Dr. Donald Kelmar hostage in a New Hampshire science research facility and escaped a mile-long trail of Feds in a helicopter toward New York State. And, why, only minutes after the three had fled the little nook of a prison, Revolver Ocelot was found bleeding and dying on the cold cement floor of Cell 36.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It begins again. This story, the third in my trilogy, will be the final installment, and most likely my last fan fiction on the site. I'm pulling out everything in my stockpile, and it's retuning to the traditional style of MGS, leaving the public awareness out of the situation. This chapter is the first in several that are planned, and many that I will write before posting again. The rest of the story will begin being posted sometime around or on Halloween. I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter, or prologue, or whatever you wish to call it, and please – if you haven't read the Compilation and the American (the preceding stories in the trilogy) – you should! Quickly! Before late October! THANKS!

                                                                                                                                    - espresso


	2. The Situation

chapter TWO: The Situation

There was a beep, one that had become more familiar to him than the ring of a telephone or the waning of a siren. Water was all around him, his face stinging against the icy waves and his arms beginning to ache from the two-mile swim across the harbor. He'd been sitting on a northern dock before, watching a helicopter hovering over a distant tanker, its hull strapped tightly to the southern points of the Manhattan harbor. But now, he paddled to keep himself afloat in the faint shadow of the giant tanker's stern, its body a great blackness that welcomed no one.

Hearing that beep again he turned his gaze about the area, but when the eye of a spotlight fell over the water before him he slipped eerily beneath the subtle waves and slithered up toward that great blackness before rising up again and flattening his back against the hull of the tanker. The spotlight couldn't reach him there. There was no way.

Watching the docks a mere thirty meters off, he saw men moving under lampposts, a sense of urgency and alertness in their walk. Beyond what he could see, though, were several Police cruisers and SWAT vehicles, their members all hidden far from the site. There was a threat, now, and the people involved who were aboard the giant tanker were not to be hassled. They were in control. They had the Doctor and whatever else was unknown.

The beeping again; the man ignored it this time. He was watching the spotlight now, surveying its path and its pattern through the waters. It was moving through a sequence, checking here and there time after time, but never touched on the docks. This was good. This made things a bit easier, but there were still men patrolling the docks. He had seen them under the lampposts.

Beep. He swam along the hull of the tanker, moving away from its stern now and going up the side. He stayed close, making sure he was not vulnerable to the enemy. But, once he had moved to the side of the tanker he didn't see any spotlights. Moving out into the waters, his arms slipping through the waves without trouble and his eyes resting above them, scanning the docks, he realized that there were only two spotlights. One was positioned at the stern, while the other watched over the bow. Men were keeping surveillance over the docks.

Beep…beep. He swam further away from the tanker, paying no attention to the spotlights any longer, but keeping heavy watch over the docks as he neared them, his strides subtle and long to keep from disrupting the waters. When he was near enough to see even in the darkness he made out three men passing over the rickety docks, dressed in camouflage sporting various shades of blue and carrying packs on their backs, slung over their shoulders along with the straps of their AK's – as the man noticed them to be.

He waded in one area for a time, paying close attention to the routes the men took on the docks; when they stopped in one spot, for how long, and when they turned and went to another. From what he could tell, they didn't have a very sequenced patrol. They went randomly from place to place, watching their feet or lighting a cigarette – more for warmth than for flavor. Their disorganization left a large lapse of time when one point went unnoticed – the very end of the nearest dock that jutted into the waters.

Waiting a moment for the nearest man to stop and then turn away, he checked along the dock and then dove under the waters, waving through the darkness and slithering up toward the surface again having seen the supports through the cloudy dark.

Breaking through the surface, there was a small splash of water. Looking quickly around, he grappled at the edge of the dock and hoisted his body upward, pulling at the wood and then twisting skillfully over the edge into a roll before kneeling and watching the nearest man turn back onto the main path of the docks.

There was an overgrowth of foliage sprouting from the tall concrete wall along the docks that looked full enough for cover, and as soon as the coast was clear he ran stealthily for them, slipping behind the green plants and leaning his back against the concrete wall.

The beep returned again, and finally he went down on his knee and touched his hand to his ear.

"Snake? You there?" The voice he heard was even more familiar than the beep of the Codec.

"Yea, yea, I'm here, Otacon. Sorry about the wait, but it took me a while to find some cover."

"It's all right, Snake. How's the water there?"

Snake didn't need long to reply. "Cold."

"You need a cut, Snake. That hair is frightening."

Snake frowned, running his hands through his mullet. "I like it," he said matter-of-factly. "It's been this way for a while now. You've never brought it up before."

"Nevermind then," Otacon sighed, rolling his eyes. Snake did the same from behind the foliage, then decided to throw the conversation askew.

"So, what's the situation?"

Otacon didn't take long to answer. This part always excited him. "About two hours ago a rural, high-security prison was infiltrated by three enemy personnel. One of them goes by John Allen - the security advisor of the prison that was jacked. The two others haven't been identified."

"So, they just waltz right in?" Snake asked.

"Apparently," Otacon answered. "The guards noticed Mr. Allen and must have let him through. About fifteen minutes later, the three were on their way out. I guess something must have clicked, then, because that's when the alarm was pulled. The Feds were all over it, almost immediately."

"And that's when they found Ocelot?" Snake asked, talking slow.

"Right," Otacon said, uncomfortably almost. "They rushed him off to a hospital, but he was dead when thy got there."

Snake's head drooped. 'All these years and three rookies take him out.' "What was the cause?"

Otacon paused, like he was looking through notes or surveying records. "They reported some cuts along the arms and legs, but nothing else. He must have lost too much blood." Snake didn't answer, and Otacon took that as a sign to continue.

"Allen and his handymen made it to a small, government-funded science complex just outside of Connor, N.H. no later than 7:10, and just minutes later commandeered the facility's helicopter and used it to escape to Manhattan with a Dr. Donald Kelmar on board. And, that's where you are at…8:06 – now."

"So, the guys who killed Ocelot are in here," Snake muttered. Otacon gave him a silence that said yes. "Is the Doctor you spoke about a hostage or an accomplice?"

"No idea," Otacon confessed.

"Any idea as to his importance?"

"Yea," Otacon said, "he's a Red Shirt."

"Red Shirt?" Snake asked.

"During the A: Objective of the Cold War, and forever since, those who were considered primary targets of the Patriot and his supporters were given new identities, moved around, hidden. They were considered too valuable to be lost and were kept masked to the Patriot. Donald Kelmar is a Red Shirt."

"How would you know if his identity has been altered?"

"Well," Otacon began, wearily. "I got a tip."

"Anonymous?" Snake asked with a heavy sigh.

"Not exactly"

"So? Who is it?"

"I'm not sure."

"Not sure? So, it is anonymous?"

"Not really – just don't worry about it," Otacon reassured him. "Trust me. It's covered."

"That leaves a few more holes," Snake said. "More than I like." Hearing a guard pass, moments later turning back, Snake parted the tall plants before him and looked out onto the main path. All three men had gathered at the edge of the dock and were huddled close, three wisps of smoke rising up between them. Snake touched his waist, a box of cigarettes hidden under the wet suit that he wore. Frowning slightly, he pulled back into the foliage. "How about our guys?" he asked. "Do we have any inside personnel?"

"No," Otacon said. "You're on your own. Just like the old days."

"What about Jack?" 

"On vacation with Charlie," Otacon said, smiling. Charlie was Jack's son, somewhere around two years old now. "He made a point of covering up his tracks so that we couldn't reach him. Did a good job, too."

"Well, that's a relief," Snake grunted. Otacon laughed, knowing that Snake was lying. Sure, he didn't like outside help, but Jack was beginning to grow on him. He wasn't the rookie anymore. He was a real soldier. Well, getting there, at least. Snake would never admit it, even if it were true.

"Okay, Otacon," Snake said, looking out from the foliage again and noting that the three soldiers were still perched on the dock's end, smoking away the cold, "I'm getting on the tanker."

Otacon hesitated, a look of sympathy and sadness in his eyes. "Be careful, Snake."

"You too, buddy." And the conversation ended with that. 


	3. ETA

chapter THREE : ETA

Snake scurried down the main path, stepping lightly along the planks, making sure he was not heard. The three who had been patrolling the docks were still huddled together at the end of the dock, paying no attention to their duties. The wind was turning like strands of hair, twisting through the sky and lifting the half of Snake's bandana high with each gust. The waters were black as before, shining an eerie shade under the spectacle of the spotlights.

The moon was falling rapidly, coming near the horizon in anticipation. With its descent the sun would rise. Snake tried figuring the time as he went on down the dock, stopping time after time behind crates and cargo to check the path. It wasn't until he had neared the ramp, a good walk from the end of the dock, that he had a good idea.

It was late in the year. November 4th. The summer was long gone, along with usual life. The Patriot story had broken into the media flow, and had been circulating for exactly four months, now. World leaders were resigning, admitting or denying their knowledge, and fleeing the media in fear. They had become largely unpopular in the preceding months, and much of the world was in chaos.

But, it relieved Snake to know that he didn't carry the burden any longer. He didn't carry the secret. Now, it was in the world's hands to recover, to survive, and to thrive again. He wasn't going to worry. Not any more. Not with the Patriot or anything like that. He had returned to his work – even though it had been nearly four months since he'd last been on the field – and found himself engulfed in yet another operation. But, this one was hardly what he'd been eager to return to. He was back at the Discovery, the tanker of the Patriot network, showcased in several Patriot-missions in the past but not realized to be a key player until July of the very same year, when Manhattan was seized and nearly destroyed by an anti-Patriot organization calling itself FACtion.

Still, the world had fallen into a rut with the exposure of the Patriot and his network. The stock market dropped, angry protests showed up in the capitals, and violent outcries sprung up all over – radicals seeking revenge for the deaths of their relatives dating as far back as the Civil War. Every problem was being sucked toward the United States, sucked toward Manhattan where it all happened. Where it all went down.

And now, on the four-month anniversary of the city's last attack – of the city's lock down and near destruction – terror was returning. Revolver Ocelot, the former Patriot, had been murdered in confinement in a rural, high-security prison in New Hampshire, and his murderers had taken a scientist hostage and were on their way to The Discovery. 

The tanker had all ready been seized by members of an unknown group, and the city of Manhattan was alerted – 200 personnel belonging to either the Police force, FBI, CIA, or special forces, sat anxiously but patiently within the city.

But, Snake couldn't see them – didn't know they were there. He knew nothing of the outside world, nothing as long as Otacon was radio silent. That's when his Codec beeped again.

He was just meters from the ramp, two soldiers in the same blue camouflage watching from its landing on the tanker. Snake ducked down behind a crate to keep hidden during any exchange of conversation, and touched his hand to his ear.

"I'm at the ramp," Snake said. Otacon nodded in acceptance.

"Good," he said. "I just spoke with the director of the FBI. I've been on hold for nearly a half hour."

"What'd he have to say?"

"Well, it seems he has a contact inside the tanker."

"An enemy?"

"No," Otacon said, "one of his men."

"What's the FBI doing inside there?"

"Apparently, they've been investigating the site for the past couple of days, trying to come up with some more information, some more clues as to how deep the Patriot's network goes."

"They'll never know," Snake said, looking off into the cold.

"No," Otacon agreed, "but that doesn't matter. What does matter is that there are almost thirty FBI officers held up in the cargo holds and at least one of them has communication with the outside world."

"Give me the name," Snake requested.

"A Joseph Brant," Otacon said, reading off the scribble on a Post-It note. "Spent two years in the Army – served time in Desert Storm before he went over to Russia and entered into the Special Forces unit, Spetsnaz."

"Spetsnaz?"

"Yea," Otacon nodded, sympathetically. "We don't find a lot of good apples out of that tree, but he served four years on overseas missions before reinstating himself as a U.S. citizen. He went through every special forces unit in the U.S. military before he finally turned himself over to paperwork and analysis."

"Why would he go from combat operations to the investigation's office?"

"Beats me, Snake, but we all have our quirks, right?"

"Yea, you and your 'Japanese cartoons,'" Snake mocked.

"You and your cigarettes," Otacon said. Snake laughed.

"All right, Otacon, what's the plan?"

"Get inside. Move directly to the cargo holds in the lower areas of the tanker, and give me an update on the hostage situation from there."

"Got it."

"And if I hear from Brant, I'll give you a ring."

"Good," Snake said, peering around the side of the crate and watching the two men at the top of the ramp pace back and forth, their eyes following their footsteps and their guns dangling carelessly over their shoulders. "I'm out." 

The connection blipped off. Snake got to his feet and peered around the corner of the crate, looking down the main path and then turning his head again to watch the three men coming back onto the path from the far end where they'd been smoking.

A crack of static put Snake back against the crate in alarm. "_Discovery?" Snake looked around the crate, up at the men at the top of the ramp. One of them reached his gloved hand up to a receiver pinned by his collar bone. He pressed the side and answered: "Go ahead," he said._

"_This is Aerial Team," the other responded. "__We're nearing __Manhattan__. ETA: ten minutes. Begin site lockdown."_

"Roger that, Aerial," the man said again, eyeing his partner and waving him down the perimeter of the tanker, toward the bow. "Lockdown sequence is underway. They're clear skies from here on in; can't wait to see ya."

The line broke up and the only man left at the top of the ramp started going down the perimeter of the tanker, toward the stern, clenching the receiver in his hand and tilting his face down as he went along. "Begin Discovery lockdown. All personnel report to positions and standby for landing." And, just before he went out of hearing distance he muttered lightly: "The boss is coming."


	4. The Call

chapter FOUR : The Call

'Boss?' Snake thought. 'The guys from the prison arrived with the soldiers. Someone else, then?'

The three went by Snake without a hint of suspicion, passing down the main path and then turning left and going down a passage cloaked by heavy foliage that lead up to a large parking lot, balancing on the brink of the island. Snake was relieved to see their attention drawn elsewhere, and the path opened for him during the relocation of troops.

He shot a look into the sky, as if paying subtle respects, and turned around the side of the crate, starting up the ramp to the tanker. The scene, to him, was eerily familiar. When he reached the deck of the tanker he stopped, his mind flashing back to the incident all those years back – when he "died." The deck was the same as it had been – slightly dirty but mostly clean from the heavy rainfall, in this case from the day before.

He looked left for a moment, his eyes positioned on the bow where a number of men were accumulating, conversing for a moment and then dispersing across the deck. He saw several of them coming down his way, their guns high now, pointed attentively into the air – the butts settled in their shoulders.

Snake shot another look to his right, and, seeing no danger in the direction, went hastily down to the stern – his walk both urgent and cautious with his back slightly hunched and his toes just nipping at the deck, pattering incessantly along.

The structure of the upper floors was built much like he'd remembered the old Discovery. When he came to its end he turned around it and flattened himself against it, looking over the stern at the calm, drifting waters. He listened for the soldiers, their steps coming rapidly, their guns rattling in their hands, their hearts vibrating through the deck.

When they turned the corner they watched across the deck for another number of soldiers who'd come up the other side. They nodded and then touched their radios: "Side decks clear. Proceeding to search the stern area." Then, they went off to the stern where the spotlight went around on programmed orders, searching the black waters below. Snake's lips went up in amusement as he watched them go to the stern without noticing him at all, their smoky figures passing by beyond the window through which he watched.

He stepped back from the porthole that was mounted in the heavy door and turned around to survey the room. It wasn't much different from when he'd seen it those years back. It was the bridge.

Control decks were scattered about the place, the tile wet and slippery. Monitors that were suspended in the corners of the room blipped from image to image of security cameras and voyage trajectories. At the time, the ship was still, but that would change. Snake stepped closer to one of the monitors and watched, waiting for it to switch from security displays to images of voyage data.

But, there was a ringing in his ear before the screen came up and a hustle of footsteps coming from the stairwell in the back of the room. Snake abandoned the monitors and found a nook beside the stairwell to hide in, the shadows laying conveniently over him, but slight highlights stretching across his face.

"Proceeding to Bridge," a voice called from the stairwell, a short burst of static following.

"_Roger that," another voice came, answering over the radio._

"_All clear on stern," came another, as a group of soldiers stepped cautiously into the area from the stairwell, and continued to check the room. "__Deck Team, report to access ramp."_

"_We're on our way," the leader replied, and Snake could see those smoky figures passing away from the stern and heading toward the access ramp. Another search team was still searching the bridge, squinting al around the room and making sure they missed nothing. Snake stood motionless, his eyes, cold as steel, biting through the dark and watching the passing guards without the slightest bit of fear._

And then, two shining eyes came staring back at him. A guard, his face cold with shock and terror, stood there with his gun gripped firmly, but still pointed to the tiled floor. Snake put his index finger to his lips and grinned behind it as the guard's eyes moved down to see his other hand positioned on the butt of a gun still holstered at his waist.

The guard couldn't move. Couldn't shout. Couldn't walk away. He was too full of freight to react at all.

"Clear," he blurted, jumping at the sound of his own voice. Turning back to the rest of the men in his detachment, he nodded to the leader – as did the rest of them – and went cautiously away from where Snake hid, his legs quivering awkwardly with each step.

"Bridge is clear," the leader reported, tilting the receiver to his lips and looking around for the OK from all of his men. He hesitated, his hand still on the receiver, watching the guard who stood before the shaded Snake.

"_We've got a problem with the access ramp," came another voice – the leader of Deck Team. "__There appears to be some sort of lock. Requesting technical assistance."_

The Bridge search team leader looked to one of his men, who quickly saluted him, and tilted his receiver again to add: "This is Bridge Team. We're on our way."

"_You have an engineer?"_

"Yea," the leader answered. "We'll be there in a minute."

"_All right - standing by." The radio connection was cut and the team quickly left the bridge, leaving Snake in silence – all but the ringing that had come and gone for the past minute as the bridge was swept. He went down on his knee, still in shadow, and touched his hand to his ear._

"You called?" he said.

"You were expecting me?" It wasn't Otacon. The voice was lower, much lower, and scratchy. It was neither young nor old, but carried an edge that could belong only to one who had experienced many things – endured many pains and struggles.

"Who is this?" Snake said, his words coming out in a grunt.

"I'm your wild card," he said.

"Brant," Snake grinned, "the FBI insider."

"Bingo," he said, coughing a little. "How's the infiltration going?"

"Nothing unusual so far," Snake said.

"That's the best kind. I always prayed for something exciting, but there was always that inkling of apprehension." He laughed. "From what I hear, you've had a good deal of surprises during your career."

"That's an understatement," Snake said.

"Sense of humor – good. Well, Solid Snake, where are you now?"

"What does that matter?"

"Aggressive – even better."

"I'm not here to play a game. I'm here to save your life and make sure whoever's coming here doesn't get out of New York harbor with this thing in tow."

"Tell me where you are or you lose my help."

"It was nice meeting you, Mr. Brant."

"There's one guard assigned to my area," Brant added, keeping Snake glued. "I'm being held in the second cargo hold. I'm not sure what's going on elsewhere, but I'll put my money on there being no more than two assigned to the first hold. The third will be with one guard as well."

"You seem pretty certain?"

"Thirty years in every military unit in the world. That long and you should hope you learn a little something."

"Right," Snake said.

"I know this place like the back of my hand."

"So do I."

"You go on memories, and we'll all be dead by this time tomorrow – your mission will have failed," Brant said. "I've been all across this tanker more than a dozen times in the past 24 hours. Don't make the mistake of blowing me off."

"I'll call you if I need anything."

"Good luck," Brant answered, and Snake cut the transmission. But, before he stood, he switched to another transmission and waited a moment.

"Yea, Snake. What's happening?" It was Otacon.

"I just spoke with Brant," he said. "A little more spirited than I'd expected."

"He's a lot like you, Snake. He wasn't born for a job at the FBI – he was born a soldier." There was a moment of quiet as Snake's mind wandered. "So, what did he tell you?"

"Not much. He's in the second hold."

"That it?" Otacon asked, surprised.

"Yea, I cut him off."

"You did what? Why?"

"He wasn't helping. He threw a few numbers at me off the top of his head and then went on to ask me my position."

"And you didn't tell him? Snake, he checked out! He's All American - loyal accessory to the United States."

"Do most All Americans end up in Spetsnaz?" There was a pause. "I don't need his help. I'm handling this one alone."

"Snake, you need all the help you can get. Spetsnaz or not, he's an asset, a valuable asset. He has information – reliable information – that we can't pass up." This earned Otacon a grunt. "Just get back with him. He can help. He's not bad."

"I'll handle it later," Snake said plainly. "Any news from the outside?"

"Nothing conclusive. I came across a few minutes of tape from the prison. It watches the main entrance – no real help. All you see is them entering and then leaving about a quarter of an hour later."

"I overheard an enemy conversation," Snake said. "They mentioned another team – Aerial team – and 'the boss.'"

"The boss?" Otacon repeated. "Someone else involved?"

"I haven't got a clue," Snake admitted. "I guess we can't really think that the security advisor at a rural prison would have had funding for an army bold enough to sweep up the most valuable ship in the world, right in front of everyone's eyes."

"Snake?" Otacon asked. Snake was reluctant to answer. He knew what would be asked of him.

"Yea, Otacon…I'll talk with Brant."

And then, as the transmission was cut, Snake stood again, light etching its way across his body in strange patterns, and stepped out of the shadow and into the open. He saw the stern abandoned through the wide windows.

And then: "They're here!" The cry was loud – loud enough for him to hear, even from within the bridge.

Suddenly, the sound of propellers rose, and in the distance he saw a figure highlighted by what little light the night had left to offer. It came over the city, shining like a jet black snake and slithering up upon him. Faster and faster it came, the propellers no longer seeming to spin at all.

He went to the wide window that looked over the stern and watched as the parking lot just beyond the docks exploded with red, blue, and white lights. Policemen jumped out of their cruisers and scattered about the area, one of them holding a giant megaphone to his lips and yelling out orders to the pilot of the helicopter – the helicopter that flew right on as three enemy troops, the ones that had earlier patrolled the docks, began firing into the mass of police forces.

"Damn!" Snake said aloud as the helicopter came overhead, hovering in a circle high above the tanker.

"_We're still having trouble with the ramp!" Snake heard a voice cry, cracking and muffled – on a radio. He backed against the wall again, hiding in the nook like before, and waited as an enemy soldier came down the stairwell – alone. Snake watched as the man fumbled with his radio – not attached above his collar bone like with the leaders. He eyed the soldier, noted the spare M9 that was buckled at his waist and the heavy AK that was slung over his shoulder. 'Do it,' Snake said to himself._

And he was out of the shadows, his arms wrapped about the soldier's neck. The enemy seemed to be trying to say something as his arms flailed about, reaching blindly for his AK, but he was quickly silenced with the sickening crunch of bone and the wet thump his body made when it slumped to the tile.

Snake bent down and took the M9 in his hand, searching the man's uniform for extra ammo only to find there was none. He touched his hand to his ear and quickly began.

"Otacon, I've acquired an M9."

"Good, Snake. What's going on there?" There was another yell on the radio – the pad was clear and the helicopter was coming down.

"'The boss' is here," Snake said, hurried. "The Feds and the cops are held up in a firefight and the enemy's working on detaching the access ramp. They're getting ready to hit the seas."

"Snake, you're in the bridge," Otacon realized, finally. "Get out of there, now!"

Before Otacon had finished Snake was off. He slid the lifeless body into the shadow where he'd hidden twice before and went to the heavy door. Looking through the porthole, he saw no one. As fast as he could, after holstering his new M9, throwing the dummy in the dead soldier's lap, and taking the soldier's radio, he spun the wheel of the door and hurried out of the bridge.

The helicopter was descending and soldiers were running up and down the deck, waving at the chopper and making last-minute preparations. From where he stood he could see the Deck Team working at the access ramp and with the radio in hand he could hear of their progress: "_We're working on the lock, still! Give us two minutes!"_

Snake hurried along the deck, watching as the helicopter neared the pad. The pad was new – not a part of the old Discovery tanker. It was roughly in the center of the tanker, positioned at the highest point of the ship, not including the smoke stacks of course. Snake could see the tail still descending as he snuck along the walls, his M9 in hand.

Then, just as the Deck Team radioed in with news of the ramp's detachment, the helicopter landed on the pad. "_This is Aerial Team. Is it clear?"_

"_Access ramp is disabled," the Deck Team reported as they pushed the ramp away from the edge of the tanker and let it dangle into the waters. "__Aerial Team, the coast is clear. We have you covered."_

Suddenly, as the Deck Team moved away from the ramp, some of them coming his way, he heard another voice on the radio: "_All navigational units, report to the bridge immediately." Snake's eyes shot wide, and he turned quickly, running – sprinting – as fast as possible, his feet beating at the deck with loud clanks. Grabbing onto a railing, he bounded up a number of steps and reached the second level of the tanker._

He went along the path and found a ladder mounted along the wall – its bottom rung too high for him to reach. Without hesitation he got up on the railing opposite the wall one which the ladder was, and jumped straight for it, his hands hardly catching the second rung but his grip never failing.

There were voices above, calling from the helicopter – going back and forth. Snake pulled his body up the ladder and started taking the rungs two at a time until he fell over on the next level. He was there, then. Just ahead of him was a set of stairs that landed on the helipad just one level higher. Lights were flashing from there, and he looked over at the parking lot too, surveying the firefight that still raged. The three wee concealed behind foliage – the cops had no idea of knowing where they were, exactly.

"Is he here?!" A voice called.

"Yes, sir!" Came another. "He was spotted in the bridge!"

Snake's heart almost stopped, waiting for his mind to process what he'd heard. 'Snake, they're talking about you.' He was up the next set of stairs before he could overhear another thing, and there he saw the helicopter resting, the propellers still spinning wildly. Two men were stepping out of the helicopter, their identities shrouded in darkness and distance, but as he raised his M9 – they, still, having not noticed him – something else pressed into the back of his neck, and someone said aloud: "Click."

Snake didn't turn. He stood there, motionless, until he was forced down the stairs again by his predator and turned to face the seas. "You 'the boss'?"

No answer.

"Well? Who are you here with?"

Still nothing.

"You come in the chopper? Or are you just another soldier?"

Silence. Snake thought to turn around, suspecting it was another soldier – someone he could overpower – but he didn't want to take the chance. His M9 was at his side, now, and as he fixed his grip on it again, the someone behind him grabbed it out of his hand and threw it aside.

"Snake," the someone said, and all of a sudden he knew who it was, "Snake…please forgive me for this."

And then, as Snake made an attempt at ducking and twisting around to face the someone, two shots rang out and his legs failed him, crumpled under him, and bled across the stingy deck. Trying to look up, but being unable, he watched the deck as his breath was swallowed up on it by the cold.

"Forgive me." And, with a quick swipe of a gun to the face, Snake's head whipped back and he turned over on the deck. He grabbed a cell phone from his pocket and punched in a series of numbers before lifting it to his ear. He stepped up the stairs and waved to the men at the chopper, who conversed with each other for a moment, and then started coming over.

"Hello?" A woman answered the phone.

"We have Solid," the man said, plainly, and slapped the cell phone shut, dropping it back in his pocket. That's when the others went past him, pushed down the stairs, and inspected Snake's injuries. They looked up to him once and he sensed their eyes on his back. "I made the call," he said, and turned on the stairs, looking down on Snake for a moment, before turning around again and taking the last step up to the pad.


	5. Many Thanks

chapter FIVE: Many Thanks

…two years pass…

"Two years ago. He was given the title of Red Shirt," he said. His legs were crossed, one propped up on the other and his jacket lay over the back of his chair. 

"Specify the term, would you?" a man asked from the right edge of the table. The man who sat at the end with his legs crossed and with his jacket laid over the back of his chair seemed subtly irritated, but scooted forward in his chair and folded his hands together.

"A Red Shirt is a title given to civilians or government and military agents considered high profile enemies of the Patriot." A single man sat at the opposite end of the table and nodded, a gruff smile of satisfaction playing on his wrinkled face. Five more men sat on either end of the table and watched him intently as he went on.

"Like I said, two years ago he was given the title of Red Shirt…"

~*~

"Right this way," a man said, holding his arms to the side and pointing down a pale-red walled hall. Double white doors were at the end, two yellow lights shining dimly on either side.

"Thank you," another man said, bowing just slightly to the first man, and then going on down the hall. He noted the carpet – its color a dark pastel shade of blue – and took equal notice to a single painting on the right wall at the end of the hall.

The double doors opened before him, steered out of his way by two black-suited men that stood within the unclosed room. He looked at them, smiled, and stepped inside.

"Give us a moment," a man said, waving the two black-suited men out of the room as he looked over a number of papers on his large oak desk. Light was trying exhaustively to break through the tall, cream drapes that covered the windows behind the man – his face shaded and his body resting against the arms of the chair – but with no luck.

The two men left the room and closed the doors. "Mr. Daves," the pale man said, standing up from his desk, "it is nice to have you here." Mr. Daves smiled weakly and put out his hand for the pale man who confronted him. He laid his palm on Daves' shoulder and shook his hand, earnestly. "Come – take a seat."

The two went across the room. The pale man sat behind his desk; rolling up to it in his chair, and Mr. Daves sat before him, taking note of the name plate on the desk: it read "E. Khirshnoff."

~*~

"After the murder at the prison in New Hampshire, he was expected on the tanker. The Discovery, thought to be a codename used regarding the transportation of Metal Gear prototypes throughout history, was high-jacked by a number of unidentified soldiers."

A man who'd been flipping through a legal pad of paper put up his hand. "I see – but what's this about the FBI being on site?"

"The FBI was investigating the site for clues to help them further understand the intentions of the Patriot network. But, they're investigation came to a halt with the sudden offensive."

"Right. Now, you said Solid Snake was expected on the tanker? How did you know this?"

"I gave his contact a tip," the man said. 

"His contact?"

"Officially, he goes by Hal Emmerich."

"And unofficially?" A man pursued.

"Otacon."

~*~

"Mr. Daves," Khirshnoff began – the phone to his ear, "could you give me one moment? It's my wife."

"Of course," he replied, and Khirshnoff stood.

"I'll be right back." As quick as he could, after setting down the phone, he waddled to the double doors and stepped through the doorway, leaving Daves alone in the wide room, the sun squinting trough the long, tall drapes, still.

Daves sat for a moment, but only for a moment, inspecting the room with his prying eyes. His neck turned about, paying close attention to every detail of the room, but then he was on his feet. He pushed his chair back and went to the wall, tapped it with his fist and grinned. He went to the door and noted how it seemed to suction to the carpet. He knocked on it – no response from the hall. Then, going around the large oak desk, he pulled out the top drawer.

Looking inside he gave a disconcerting glance, and, with a certain rhythm to his movement, he pulled a heavy black gun from the drawer.

~*~

"Where did Allen come in?" Another man, his only remaining hair combed over the top of his head, streaked with baldness. 

"The FBI came across a number of terrorist profiles during the last terror sweep in 2009. The alias 'Charles Ward' was mentioned in one of the profiles and was later connected to several terrorist attacks attempted overseas. The accumulative death toll from each and every terrorist attack he as assumed connected with rose into the thousands, and had occurred all across the Middle East."

"Then this Charles Ward was Mr. Allen?"

"No," the man at the end of the table said, crossing his legs again, "definitely not. Charles Ward was eventually nabbed and thrown in prison. Mr. Allen was the warden at that particular prison and when Ward managed to bust out Mr. Allen was blamed and put out of work."

"But he hadn't just forgotten to lock a cell," one man said, "you think he assisted in Ward's escape?"

"Exactly."

~*~

Daves was sitting back in the seat he'd been sitting before Khirshnoff had left the room. That's when the door opened. "Sorry about that," the large, pale man apologized, a bounce in his step that made him appear as if he was more waddling than walking. "The wife just bickering about some fake diamonds I bought her some time ago. She's got an eye for jewelry – hard to trick the old girl."

Daves smiled, almost laughed, but the big man had all ready taken a seat on the other side of the desk, his hands cuddled and his mouth jabbering about business. "So, Mr. Daves, let's get on to why you're here."

"I've been looking for a nice place to settle down," Daves began.

~*~

"Mr. Allen was picked up by the NSA some time ago, after he'd been given the job at the little prison in New Hampshire and after the former Patriot had been sent there to live out the rest of his days in a cold jail cell. He was let go, but the NSA kept a close eye. Their precautions proved to be worthy of the situation when they caught him consorting with well-known terrorist figures. Unfortunately, the team that was sent in to apprehend Mr. Allen walked into an ambush and was taken out. Allen got away and didn't show up again until that night when the Patriot was found murdered."

"After the tanker had been seized you touched down, right?"

"Right," the man whose legs were crossed admitted. "We'd learned of the situation prior to its engagement, and someone higher in the ranks had managed to break a deal with those involved. I was the man they sent in to nab Solid Snake."

"What'd the higher ranks offer Allen?"

"No idea," the man confessed. "But, they were chased – and conveniently not caught – to a little city in northeast New Hampshire where they took Dr. Donald Kelmar hostage."

"What part did Kelmar play in the deal?" One man asked, puzzled.

"Kelmar was a Red Shirt, just like Solid Snake, and the government suspected his involvement in past Patriot operations. So, they worked him into the plot and once he was in Allen's hands they high-jacked the on-site helicopter. The doctor was picked up in an isolated area by  higher officials and Allen and the rest continued to the tanker."

"So, when they got there, they did their job, rounded up the FBI officers and locked them in the lower compartments? Then set sail?" Someone assumed. 

"Right, but before they managed to unhook the tanker, I arrived by helicopter."

"And?"

"I confronted Solid Snake."

~*~

"I was thinking about setting up near 'Trinket,'" Daves said. Khirshnoff seemed appalled, his face twisted up in horror and rage. Then, with a quick jolt of life, he pulled open the top drawer of the desk and reached inside. Hitting the bottom of the drawer with his fist, he heard something click ahead of him.

Looking up, his eyes stinging with fear, he saw Daves standing across from him, a heavy black gun in his hand.

~*~

"Did he learn who you were?" A man asked.

"I doubt it. I kept behind him – he never saw me."

"Did you ever speak?"

There was a moment of hesitation. "No."

"So, after you put him out what happened?"

"We piled back into the helicopter and pulled away before the ship let go of the docks. They hopped off on the northern coast of Russia just north of Noril'sk."

"And that was that?"

"That was that."

~*~

"What do you know about 'Trinket?'" Khirshnoff asked, his voice shaking but angry.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "I want the location. Give me the coordinates."

"Why? Why do you want to go there?"

"There's someone on his way there now – someone I am dying to meet." Daves was looking beyond Khirshnoff now, his eyes focusing on something very distant but very near.

"Well, what if I don't have them?" the large man retorted, his eyes sharp and fierce.

"You do."

~*~

"I'm thankful for the report, but what relevance does this hold to the current situation?" One man wondered, his tone exaggerated and annoying.

"Solid Snake was given the title of Red Shirt after the incident and was held in a government prison for a number of months – for security reasons. After that time, he was cleared of the title and released under one circumstance. He had to rejoin with the newly instated unit, FOX-HOUND, which had disbanded after the Shadow Moses Incident."

"Why was it reinstated?"

"There was a series of reevaluations following the Manhattan incident from two and a half years ago. Eventually, they passed, and Solid Snake was offered a seat in its ranks. He accepted, against his own desire, and was reinstated to FOX-HOUND."

"And that is what brings us to today?"

"Yes. Just three days ago we received satellite images over Russia that showed activity in a location that's been dormant since the Cold War came to a close – images of a Russian weapons technology site, codenamed: 'Trinket.'"

"Is that reason for worry?" Someone asked. The man whose legs were crossed shook his head.

"Not yet. That's where he is right now."

"Who?" the wrinkled man opposite him, asked.

"Who do you think?"

~*~

"Here," Khirshnoff said, hastily, handing Daves a folder filled with geographical reports and statistics regarding 'Trinket', "take this. It's all I have in the office." Daves took the folder and put it under his arm, still aiming the heavy black gun at Khirshnoff who looked at him, silently praying for mercy.

"This room is sound-proofed," Daves said, cruelly. Khirshnoff looked at him in horror, his breath quickening and his heart beating terribly in his chest.

Until a fiery bullet pierced it and sent a stinging up his spine that he would never feel for he had all ready died. 

"Many thanks," Daves said, turning away and setting the heavy black gun on the table.  Then, he stepped into the hall and went casually out of the building before anyone knew what he'd done.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: At this point, you might be confused. Please, if so, read it over again. Maybe twice more, maybe three times more. If you intend to follow the story, this chapter is essential. Thanks, and I hope you enjoyed. Oh, and do note, in this chapter Daves' character is not retrieving the information regarding Trinket for the character in the first track of scenes – they are independent occurrences, though they do happen at the same time.


	6. Once Again

chapter SIX: Once Again

"Three days ago it showed signs of activity," the man said, his voice heavy but youthful. "We got the go-ahead from the President, who's assuming control of the situation. This one's a little different than usual. For one reason or another, the President finds it to be a subject of national priority, but the Vice hasn't been taking particular interest, so the President has taken operational command. A bit of a twist on their part but nothing drastic."

"Same rules?"

"You're going in without weapons, without food – same as usual," the man said. "This is new for me, though. It's an honor to be a part of the experience. Your name floats around a lot in the field."

"Heh…and I always thought I was a well-kept secret."

"Of course, but the legend is well known…of course, legends aren't always what they're made out to be, are they Snake?" 

"No, Brant," Snake snickered. "Not always."

Brant smiled to himself and then jumped the track with conversation. "I've assembled a team for this mission, Snake. Some of them are FOX-HOUND, and some aren't. I managed to snag one who carries the world's phonebook in her back pocket – she'll get us whoever we need."

"Whoever we need?" Snake seemed to disapprove, a bit of disgust lingering after he'd spoken. "FOX-HOUND operates in the dark. Why would we have need to contact anyone from the outside?"

"Snake, there is a lot of information we can get on Trinket. It was a big deal back in the Cold War, so there are loads and loads of files pertaining to it, but they could be anywhere. Still, they could save us hours, maybe give us a heads up on what we should expect from the place. The architectural plans, materials on site, history – we need all we can get, and in this case we can get a whole lot if we know the right people."

"Right," Snake shrugged. "So, who's the international telemarketer?"

"Heh, she's no telemarketer, Snake," Brant laughed. "I think you'll recognize the name. I started looking for her about a year back when she came up in a famous field report."

"So? Who is she?"

"Mei…Ling, is it?"

"Mei Ling?" Snake asked, almost weary, almost excited.

"That's the one. One of the better geniuses of the new generation," Brant said. "She had a whole lot of experience after you two worked together at Shadow Moses and in Manhattan. She worked with the NSA for a time, tweaking decryption devices and testing hardware on field missions. She's a bright character."

"What frequency is she running on?" Snake asked, hoping to speak with her soon.

"I'll check up on it for you, but you'll have to give me a little while. I have an appointment to catch in a half an hour with the director of the NSA. They have some information."

"Where are you stationed out of?"

"I'm staying in South Carolina. Charleston."

"Well then, you're certainly seeing the better side of nature," Snake joked, but sounded grim, unfortunate.

"It's not too nice here, Snake. It's all ready November. The skies are getting pretty gray."

"That's right…November," Snake said, pondering something.

"START 3," Brant said. "You remembered. The United States and Russia will be meeting in Moscow tomorrow around noon to pass the treaty with a formal ceremony."

"Not a good time for all of this then, is it?"

"Not at all," Brant smirked. "Both the US and Russia are counting heavily on the treaty. Tension between the two countries has been greater than ever throughout the past year. Nothing like the Cold War, but we're all counting on the reduction to settle the political and militaristic fronts."

"Why would the President be taking priority with this mission if he had something like that on his mind?"

"Who knows, Snake? This one's a bit of a rebel. You knew that when he helped bring down the Patriot during the whole FACtion fiasco those years back. Whatever his reason is, it shouldn't affect the mission at all."

"Right," Snake grunted, "then what exactly is my mission?"

"Your first objective is to find out what kind of activity is going on there. Are nuclear weapons involved? Chemical? Biological? What?"

"And then?"

"Then you eliminate the threat, if one exists," Brant said. "It's the same as usual, but be on your guard and make sure you stay hidden. This is a sneaking mission, Snake – just what you're used to. And we certainly could do without any unnecessary retaliation on the day of the START 3 signing."

"I got it, Brant." Snake went to end the transmission.

"Snake," Brant added quickly. He stopped.

"Yea?" Snake said, almost annoyed.

"I love the hair."

Snake grinned and stood. Through the doorway of the helicopter, opened to the brisk night air, there was a slant of crisp moonlight that with the chopper's movement glided slowly up Snake's body. His legs were thinner than they'd been, but his muscle was still there. The pants he wore were shaded a dark blue and as the light rose it revealed the bareness of his beltline where two holsters were left empty. Up his chest and over his arms, the moonlight held witness to his slimness but even more to the clearness of his muscles that cut through the fabric of his sneaking suit and etched out his figure. Then, as the light fell over his face it was found bare and clean, shaven and shiny. His hair was cut to the length he knew it before Philanthropy came to life, and his suit, as the light had uncovered it, was one more memorable than any – the Shadow Moses sneaking suit; a memento of the famous mission.

And then, as the helicopter turned and as a building rose out from behind the ice structures, poised on a cliff of white and overlooking the lake that was frozen at its feet, Snake ended the transmission and, without another glance at his surroundings, at the helicopter that had been his home for the past several hours, he stepped forward and let the wind take hold of his arms, his legs, his body.

The biting cold swam around him, spun its wisps about his body and held him gracefully but momentarily in the air. Then, as gravity began to pull down upon him, the wind ran up his back and stretched out into wings that he used to steer to the ground.

And when he closed his eyes, they having been frozen through by the cold, the wind beating against him in ferocious torrents, something that resembled a smile stretched across his face and the world was his playground once again.


	7. On the Road

chapter SEVEN: On the Road

The wind broke around him as he twisted about, doing a forward flip and finding the floor of ice and snow just beneath him. Something blipped on his belt, attached in the back, and a gust of cold air swept away from where he now stood, his toes still above the ground. Tapping the contraption on his belt and unclamping it from where it was, he stepped down in the snow and tossed the little box aside. "Even better than before," he muttered to himself, looking at the gadget with a dull smile – remembering Hell's Outpost, the first time he'd used the Z Force when being dispatched from a helicopter. The image of a friend washed over his eyes, but was quickly batted away as he blinked, his eyes stinging in the cold. Then, focusing again on his surroundings and taking a quick look around him, he kicked a mound of snow overtop the gadget and stepped forward.

The snow fell heavily, quickly. Its descent was furious and hurried, not graceful or beautiful as it was often seen in the States. Back there, snow was an occasional occurrence, something of a miracle, or just the right excuse to sit down with a cup of hot chocolate. In Russia, this area of Russia at least, it was commonplace. In Russia it wasn't important or meaningful. It was like American politics – incessant, annoying.

Snake peered through the haze that fell around him and could see, some distance off, the rough outline of a building. It wasn't terribly large from what he could tell, but it was three or so stories and much longer and wider than he remembered Hell's Outpost to be. Of course, that had been a research facility. Trinket had been one of the more high-profile nuclear development sites from the Cold War – and its meaning alone granted that it would indeed be much larger than Hell's Outpost had been.

From what he could tell, there was no sign of the enemy between where he stood and the building off in the distance. Even if there had been, though, he doubted they'd be able to see him either. The snow was a shield, a veil, and it covered all.

Stopping for a moment, Snake touched his hand to his ear and waited to be connected with Brant, but there was no response. He frowned to himself, looked up in the sky in hopes of recognizing the moon, and dismissed the search before heading off into the snow, his eyes frozen ahead of him where the body of a building slowly became clearer.

~*~

"How'd it go?" Brant asked, opening the door of his truck and hoisting himself inside, a cell phone cramped between his ear and his shoulder.

"I just got out of the meeting," someone answered on the phone. Brant shut his door and pulled a ring of keys from his left pocket. Sliding one into the ignition, the car sputtered to a start. "They understand the situation, but they were hardly enthusiastic. Apprehensive – that would explain their response."

"But they understand what's happening?"

"Yes," the man said. Brant shifted gears and put his foot on the gas, lightly, creeping out of the parking lot and turning onto the street. He accelerated a little and pulled one hand from the steering wheel, taking the cell phone in it and moving it to the other ear for a moment.

"Anything specific come up?" Brant wondered. There was a moment of hesitation on the other end of the call as the man thought back to the meeting.

"Nothing specific," he answered, finally. Then, with an air of playfulness: "The President showed."

Brant cocked his neck. "Really?"

"He didn't have much to say, but he didn't seem the slightest bit worried," he added. "He's taking it well. I've seen him in a bind before, but he didn't flinch once."

"Taking it well?" Brant pondered. "That's strange."

"Not as strange as you'd think. I know him. He's always been good with handling pressure. The FACtion episode was a fine example."

"I didn't think you were lying," Brant apologized. "It did seem strange." 

Then, after a pause the other man entered again: "This marks the end of our cooperation."

"I guess so," Brant said. "Keep safe. The next several hours are going to be hectic."

"Good luck with the operation," the other man said with sincerity. "And," he added, pausing for a moment to run his words over in his head, "keep an eye out for Snake. He's special."

Brant pondered the words even after the man had disconnected, but even as he rolled up to the empty office building on William Street where he was to be meeting the director of the NSA in roughly ten more minutes, he wasn't exactly sure what the man had meant by 'special.'

~*~

The car ran well. Not great, but at least it worked. There was a terrible radio station on, its content a mix of jazz and opera that turned out to be hardly original but boringly dull and monotonous. Checking the rearview mirror, Daves saw someone trailing him closely. Rolling down his window and peering out behind him for a moment, the car on his tail – a rickety looking box on wheels, dust and grime accumulating in every groove – slowed a little and then moved into the lane beside him.

He watched as the car went by, two long-haired men beating their heads to some unearthly music that appealed even less to him than what he was currently listening to.  He rolled his eyes and put his back against the seat again, turning the rearview mirror to examine his teeth and presenting it with a grand smile. He ran his tongue over the smooth ridges of his mouth and then bent the mirror it back so that he could see whatever was behind him.

"Fabulous!" Daves exclaimed under his breath. A big black van was rolling on behind him, two men sitting within its confines and staring straight ahead. One seemed to be fiddling with something beneath the dashboard while the driver simply looked on, a vacant glare in his glazed eyes.

Daves sped up a little, trying to get some distance. The van didn't accelerate any, just kept on going like it had. He examined the two men's faces again, hoping to find some indication that they should not be found suspicious. But, as he watched them longer, he saw only more of that stale gaze, that plain, motionless stare.

"Well then," Daves said, loosening a bit and cracking his knuckles against the steering wheel, "let's go for a little joy ride." Putting on his right turn signal, he moved into the next lane. The van did not.

They came to a spotlight and as the lanes became congested Daves peered back to see the van moving into the right lane behind three or four other cars. Daves checked the lights and waited for the signal to go off again.

Turning onto the next street, he coasted down a graceful hill and observed the passing cars and trucks and vans. But when he checked his rearview mirror once more, the van was right behind him. No longer did three or four cars separate them. They were bumper to bumper now.

Daves waited for another intersection and turned left on the next one he came to. The van followed ominously behind, keeping a good distance now, but the fact that it was following him was hardly disguised.

It was a long drive before Daves had reached the inner city. 'Welcome to Noril'sk' a sign greeted him in Russian. Night was falling over the city, and the taller buildings began to glow orange by the window lights. Snow was falling, but only lightly. The past week had been unusually warm for the area, but Daves worshiped the snow now. It was forming a wall between him and his apparent pursuers, as well as a larger gap.

Eventually, they moved out of his sight, at which point he turned off his radio and moved into the left lane, slowing to a halt and then taking his opportunity to pass into an alley. As soon as he had driven in the snow seemed to fade away and darkness washed over him.

He drove down the alley, which was like a ramp, and found it open into a space large enough for a parking lot. Two dumpsters were against two of the buildings that served as walls. Trash was scattered about the dingy stone and concrete and a terrible stench lifted with a path of smoke escaping a nearby vent. Stopping his car, he pulled the keys out of the ignition and dropped them into his pocket. Then, he lifted a heavy black coat from the passenger seat and opened the door of the car.

Stepping out, he swung the coat over his body and slipped his arms through the sleeves. He pulled gloves out of one of the pockets and fit them on his hands before pulling a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches from another.

The match popped to life and singed the end of the cigarette pursed between his soft lips. He dropped the match to the wet concrete and stepped on it, crushing it under his shoe. Then, pulling the cigarette from his mouth, he puffed out a great plume of smoke and turned to face his car. Slipping the little thing back between his lips, he unzipped his pants and began to melt away a soda can by his car.

That's when something came through the alley, its lights off and its motor hushed. It rolled over the concrete and stone and appeared in the parking lot-like space, moving up behind Daves who went on releasing himself. The van was big. It was black. And two men sat in the front seats, one fiddling with something beneath the dash board and the other putting his foot on the brakes as his eyes remained motionless on the back of Daves' head.

Pushing a bit of smoke out of the side of his mouth, Daves went on doing his business. The van's door crept silently open and the man in the passenger seat slipped stealthily out, a large silver pistol in his hand. The smoke from the vent nearby became thick and the snow was beginning to come down stronger, more violently, pushing its way into the alley and to the hair on Daves' head.

And as the man took aim with the silver pistol, the other sitting calmly in the big black van, Daves grinned at the soda can beside his car and muttered something.

There was a pang as the silver pistol set loose its first shot, and another as it pricked the brick wall, leaving a sizeable recess where Daves had been. But, as the man readied to fire again Daves was back around, facing him with a heavy black gun in his hand, the one he'd taken from, and in less than a second he'd fired.

The bullet shattered through the man's ribs and punctured his lungs, sending him onto his back. Then, Daves turned quickly, and fired once more at the van. There was a loud noise as the bullet busted through the windshield, followed immediately by a blood-curdling smash and a haunting splash of blood that gave Daves a wonderful sense of excitement.

Turning back to the soda can he smiled. "What did I tell you?" Then, he went over to the man on the ground and watched him gasping, working desperately to hold in the air, to stay alive just a moment longer. But, as his arms wrapped around Daves' leg, gripping tightly at him for mercy, his body failed him and his grip was lost. His body fell limp.

Daves said nothing more, did nothing more, but went back to his car, opened the door, and took a seat behind the wheel. Rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth and shooting one last looked out the frosting window at the horrifying sight that was his own doing, he slipped the keys into the ignition and drove out of the alley and turning back onto the road he would follow for the next couple of hours.

The road to Trinket.


	8. Next Time We Talk

chapter EIGHT: Next Time We Talk

The snow wasn't bothering him all that much, nor was the cold. He'd been given the same thing he'd been given back in Shadow Moses. Naomi had called it an anti-freezing peptide, but Snake wasn't quite convinced. His face still stung with every prick of the icy rain and his eyes felt frozen over like the surface of a lake in winter. His legs remained warm and comfortable, though, for they, as did most of his body, hid beneath his sneaking suit that was insulated beyond expectations. The contrast in temperature from face to chest was a drastic one, but it was something Snake had dealt with before, and was definitely not something that would get him down.

SO, he went on, trudging through the snow that was rising up past his heels and even up to his knees as tall drifts had formed on the icy plain. Off in the distance, though, growing ever nearer, was the hazy outline of his destination, of Trinket. And it wouldn't be long before he reached it. It wouldn't be long.

But then, he heard a voice resonating from just feet away, and he quickly dropped against a snow drift, hiding his body behind it. "Damn radios," the voice came, "they never work."

"It's this fuckin' weather," another voice chimed, grim and gruff. "You can't see or hear a damn thing."

Snake frowned at their crude language but paid close attention. He could hear their boots crunching in the snow over the drift he hid behind. They had stopped, though, and were merely talking, conversing. They banged their radios, hit them against the freezing surface of the snow, and nearly broke them in half as they went on talking. Snake didn't take his time, though. He looked beyond the drift and surveyed the terrain as well as he could in the weather.

And, without waiting another moment, he scurried out from behind the tall drift and moved behind another, further away from the two guards. He could see them from this angle, now, but he didn't think they could see him. He knew they were American from the way they spoke, but he couldn't tell what kind of weapons they carried. The night was too heavy, the snow too dense.

~*~

He was still in the White House. He hadn't left. There was another meeting for him to attend to, one of great importance. He followed the maze of lighted hallways, all bustling with suits and ties and ringing phones and beeping fax machines and loud televisions. It was very early morning still, the sun trying hard to break beyond the sharp skyline of the east coast. In the west it had shown its face, but, with its coming at the capital, one of the world's most important days, in a political sense, was coming too. And it seemed, even as the sun was far from rising, that day had all ready begun. Preparations for the START 3 assembly in Moscow were underway and had been for many years ever since George Sears was in office. They'd started then – they would end today.

He moved through the cramped corridors until he came to a guarded door in the West Wing. Showing off a badge or a card of some sort, the guard stepped aside and he went on through. The busy offices became a memory as soon as the door shut behind him, and the echoes of boilers and other machines became his new background.

Before him was a dingy staircase, stains and rust eating it away. He went down them in something of a hurry and stopped at the last landing where there was nothing but a single door populating the narrow stairwell. Brandishing the card or badge again, he swiped it over some sort of scanner mounted beside the door and there was a faint release of air as it pushed itself open. The man passed through the now-open doorway and moved into another hall, the lighting dim and the walls scarred much like the staircase.

There were few people around, but it was still noisy – noisy only in his mind, though. Every face he saw as he went down the hall held an air of suspicion, a heavy look of dismay, and a trace of amusement. All of the men in this area wore whatever they pleased, though most still took the way of the suit and tie. There were doors and doors and doors, all sitting in the walls on either side of him. Outside of each closed door stood an armed officer – armed not with just a simple sidearm, but also stun grenades and tranquilizer equipment. At the end of the hall, on the right, there was an officer standing with his sidearm in a tight grip. He watched the man go down the hall and when they were finally standing before each other the officer checked the card the man was carrying with him and then nodded, opening the door to a room bare of anything but a table and two chairs.

When the man moved inside, the door shutting behind him, he immediately noticed the security cameras in the room. There were four. Two were suspended in opposite corners of the room, while a third watched under the table, and the fourth looked straight down on the table. The next thing that the man noticed was the young-looking official that was all ready sitting down in the chair opposite him.

"Mr. Vice President," the man said, taking a seat. The Vice President let no emotions show through, not this early in the game at least. The two didn't know each other well. They'd worked together for a time, but they hadn't become good friends or anything like that. Most of the man's work was unacknowledged beyond the President's high chair. Not even the Vice had much knowledge of his history or his records.

"Simon West - you know the rules. Nothing leaves this room."

The man nodded as he took off his jacket and set it over the back of the chair, as he'd done in his meeting with the President and the other representatives earlier.

"You're not a member of FOX-HOUND, is that correct?" 

The man nodded again. "That's correct. I work with the President – directly with the President."

"Good…have you noticed him acting strangely at all?"

"The President?" the man asked. "No I haven't. Why would you ask?"

"There are identified foreign agents inside the government as we speak...agents that are a threat to our national security…agents that have means to screw us over today in Moscow. The President has perfect knowledge of them, but is unwilling to remove them. He wants to play with them, see what they are planning, see who they're planning it for. But, I don't like the way he's handling the situation. It's foolish, and these agents must be removed."

"That's the way he operates," the man said. "He's not the conventional political figure. You must know that, being his right hand man."

"He's making the wrong decision, and the stakes today are far too high for him to play games. These agents must be dealt with, and they must be dealt with now, before the assembly in Moscow."

"You want me to take care of them," the man said, crossing his arms. He was impatient with the Vice President, now. He wasn't one to betray a close associate like the President.

"I have the names, their locations, everything about them. At this point there is no way we can simply let them go on and plan away. We have to take care of the problem before the assembly. There's no option any longer. I need your help."

"You can't honestly tell me that there's not another more qualified agent in the capital today who's able to do this job," the man said.

"There are certainly more qualified agents, but none that have the connection you share with the President. He would never suspect that you would do this, and as long as you do the job well, he'll never had reason to."

"I do the dirty work and someone else takes the blame?"

"You'll be in touch with the President throughout the day; I'm sure, seeing the importance of this day. I'm not simply afraid that he is ignoring these agents – I'm afraid that he has dealing with them."

He was surprised to hear this, especially from a man whom he'd never truly gotten to know, about a man whom he'd spent years of work with. "You're calling my President a traitor to his country."

"He's my President too!" This was the first time the Vice President had gotten angry. He seemed hurt, saying the things himself, but he seemed to have his priorities straight. He knew the country came before his own emotions and there was reason, apparently, for him to question the President's objectives. "I know the man just like you do."

"Then you'll agree that he'd never turn his back on his country."

"I would have normally said that," the Vice President began, but now he seemed upset by something, "but I wouldn't be accusing him if I didn't have reason to, or poof regarding it."

"And you say you do have proof?"

"That's what I'm saying, but there's someone else you'll need to talk to for that," the Vice President said. "He was a former colleague of yours. You worked together on a few operations a couple years back."

The man waited.

"The name is David Springfield," the Vice President said. The man looked at him and could recall the last time they'd worked together. He'd been with him at the tanker when he'd submitted Snake. That was about two years ago, but he had a vivid memory. There had been something about that David Springfield that had always touched him the wrong way - something he had a hard time remembering right then, when he first heard the name, but something that was soon come back to him.

"Here's the number," he said, sliding a piece of crumpled paper across the desk. The man picked it up, looked at it, and then slipped it in his jacket pocket. "Take this too," he said, passing a cigar to the man. He picked it off the table, too, and looked at it questioningly. "Everyone enjoys a smoke every once in a while."

The man looked disconcertingly upon the Vice President and stood, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair and slipping the cigar into the pocket with the crumpled piece of paper that bore the phone number of David Springfield.

"Stay in the district," the Vice President told him. "The President will be in touch with you throughout the day, as will I. And, I'd like you to get back with that Brant character."

The man seemed to freeze. No one knew about his association with Brant.

"I'm going to need updates on the situation at Trinket."

"Do you think the agents inside the government have connections with those operating Trinket?"

"We won't know until you make contact," the Vice President said, still sitting. "I'll be giving you a call in a little while. And, make no mistake, you're being watched today. If you leave the district or tell anyone about the offer I've given you, you're time on this earth will be instantly limited."

The man gave him a look of amusement, sensing the humor in the Vice President's voice. But, that hardly meant they were warming up to each other. He still didn't quite believe what the Vice had told him, but his conversations with Springfield and Brant might change his mind.

He went to the door, not thinking to say good-byes, and put his hand on the knob. "Next time we talk," the Vice said, "it's Alex – Alex Moore." The man smiled to the door and as he turned the knob said: "Next time we talk…it's Desperado."

Then, he swept out of the room and went back through the dim hall, ascending the rusting stairwell, and then leaving the White House through the busy offices of the West Wing. 


	9. Call Waiting

chapter NINE: Call Waiting

Brant closed the door of his truck as he stepped out onto the pebbly surface of the parking lot. The shadow of a ten-story office building loomed overhead, better defined by the surrounding glow of street lamps and street fires contained within tall metal barrels. This was the bad part of town. Much of Charleston had been altered in the past few years, and the parts of it that remained old and delicate were too sparse to make the place stand out any longer. It was better known, now, for its rapid decay.

The air was still but cold. Brant wasn't dressed for this weather, but he wouldn't have to stand there for an hour. He hoped it would be a short meeting, maybe ten minutes at most. But, he didn't really know. He'd seen how the NSA worked, but he didn't know what this meeting would be like. The subject matter – Trinket – was far more sensitive than something you might hear during a tour of the headquarters or on your first day of work. The fact that they were meeting at an abandoned office building was also reason for speculation, but he tried not to.

He put on a serious face and started toward the office building. 

He stopped at the front doors, under the overhanging ceiling, when he heard a voice coming out of the dark: "Hello, Joseph."

~*~

He'd parked his car outside the little restaurant and waited for the rain to calm down a bit before hurrying inside. He was seated quickly, seeing as there was hardly anyone accompanying him, right by the windows through which he could see the red and white lights of traffic fading in the rain. He had brought his folder inside with him and had laid it on the greasy yellow table, just beside the tacky green placemat.

It was a good ten to fifteen minutes before anyone came to wait on him, a woman who happened to be drastically overweight. Her auburn hair was twisted and frayed and her face was shiny and filthy from sweat and grease. Two of her teeth, her bottom front ones, were unusually undeveloped, hardly pushing through her gums to show themselves, and were also tainted a dull gray. When he saw her coming up to him, her cream apron on the verge of tearing in two down her front, he looked back to the windows and reexamined the traffic and the rain and the buildings and the lights and the darkened sky and the pale moon that had once been shining brightly, but was now shrouded by a dense screen of clouds.

The business of the city was heavily contrasted by the plainness of the restaurant, the monotonous beat of the faint music overhead, and the emptiness that surrounded him.

"Can I take your order?" the woman asked, slipping a small pad of paper out of her apron pocket and clicking a pen in her hand.

Daves looked at her and put on a warming smile, one that the woman took to be quite offensive. "You're American," she said, her accent heavy on the words she spoke. "Don't you go and criticize me for being overweight." Daves was rather taken aback, having not intended for his gesture to be taken negatively, but held the smile a little longer and then came back to earth.

"I'll have a Coke," he said, smiling again. The woman scribbled it down and waited. Peering over her little notepad over which she was hunched like a giant, she shot him a look of disgust and confusion.

"That it?" she grunted.

"That's all," he nodded. She slapped the notepad shut, shoved it into her apron, and went off to get his Coke. He decided to ignore her strangeness and turned his attention to the folder on the table. Sliding it onto the tacky green placemat, he flipped it open and quickly scanned the first packet of text – about ten pages stapled in the top left corner, highlighter marks and Post-it notes littering each page. 'KING – Counterterrorism Report' the first line read in bold print. There was a picture a ways down the page, off-center to the right, that carried an interesting caption.

'American agent 'KING' – Captured'

Daves reviewed the picture once more and sat silently for a time, before the waitress had come and slapped the Coke down in front of the folder. "There ya'are," she said, her voice seeming muffled, and then went off. Daves looked closer at the picture, trying to identify the man in it.

Then, the door opened, a number of silver bells clinking together as it did, and a man came inside, bringing a gust of cold air with him.

~*~

"So, what's the good word?" a soldier asked as another came through the heavy snow from the building far away. Snake was still hidden behind the drifts, but paid close attention to what the men were discussing.

"The storm should be passing, soon," the newcomer said, his voice gruff and aching. The cold had taken its toll on him, no doubt. There was a rasp in his words and his throat had been torn by the cold air and was bleeding painfully. "They're reporting an hour or two break in the weather."

"What's happening inside?" one of them asked. The newcomer coughed, his sound like a loud horn or a squawking bird.

"Harte's being held in the lower levels," he coughed again. 'Harte?' Snake thought. "They're taking him to see it in the next hour. Then, they'll go through with the deal and we'll get the hell away from this place."

'What's the deal?' Snake thought.

"They're not telling anyone what it's about," one of them said, almost seeming to be answering Snake. "Not much of a surprise, though."

Snake tried to move even closer against the drift, to be sure he was out of the enemies' view, and put his hand to his ear. He was trying to get a hold of Brant, but there wasn't an answer.

'What's he doing now?' Snake thought.

~*~

"You picked a nice place to meet," Brant said, joking. The man came further into the light, casting his shadows across the textured walls of the office building in the background. The man's wrinkles curled about his forehead, showing worry. He seemed inconvenienced by the meeting, but he knew that the meeting was necessary. Brant's attempt to lighten the mood failed.

"You wanted this information," the man said, pulling a folder from the confines of his heavy jacket. "Here you are." Brant took the folder and flipped it open, skimming quickly over the contents and scanning the pages that were inside. "It's everything you need to know about Trinket, or rather, everything the NSA has to offer you. What we know is still cloudy, at best, but it's more than you'll find searching the internet."

"Will, I'm not a fool. This isn't all you have," Brant said. Judging from the contents of the folder, the NSA didn't have much of anything.

"It's all we're willing to offer," he returned, almost as if he found humor in what he'd said. Brant looked at the folder again, disgusted, and then back to the man who only stood as tall as his chin. 

"I want more," he said. "Give me more." Demanded.

Will turned an eye to the far end of the parking lot as the headlights belonging to a small black car rolled up from the surrounding streets. Then, turning back to Brant, he said: "Have you forgotten how the government works, Josef? I can't imagine you, of all people, could or would." The car came up to the overhang and the man turned away, went to the back door, and gripped the handle before turning.

"You've had a tough time, Josef," the man said as he opened the door. Brant watched him, almost upset at what the man had said. 'You've had a tough time.' What kind of bull shit was that? "We'll be in touch."

Will fell into his seat and closed the door, the car steadily passing out of the parking lot and disappearing down the streets. Brant pulled his phone out of his pocket and leaned against the doors of the office building, punching a number and then lifting it to his ear.

"Good day?" 

"Desperado," Brant started, "how much do you know about Will Beck?"

~*~

Daves looked back down at the folder. The exposed file was the one with the image of KING printed on its front. The man who had come in from the cold scanned the restaurant with his eyes, not stepping in any direction yet, but when he saw Daves sitting in the booth he stopped and smiled weakly to himself. Then, he went over to the bar.

Daves couldn't believe the face he saw. The beard was cut the same, the eyes stung just the same, and the lip had a curl and twist identical to that in the picture before him. This man, who had come in from the cold, looked exactly the same as the man labeled in the folder – a KING.

"Good evening," the man said to the bartender as he stepped up and sat down on a tall stool. Then, he asked for some drink that Daves could not understand and waited as the bartender went to work. Daves kept a close eye on the bartender, watched as he tipped the bottles and filled the glass, then mixed them and stirred them together. The man at the bar pulled a wallet from his back pocket and threw down his money. The bartender turned, collected the money, gave him his change, and set down the tall glass, filled to the brim with a thick, red froth.

Daves examined the man further, noting his black raincoat that fell close to the tile, the stylish collar that buttoned up on his neck, and a gun holstered at his waist. Daves straitened his back and looked to the folder a last time. It was KING. No doubt. But, why was he there? And who was KING anyway?

~*~

"William Beck? Director of the NSA?"

"Yea," Brant answered. "What do you know about him? Anything?"

Desperado paused. "He was never a supporter of the President. I met him a couple years back before I was sent in to Manhattan regarding FACtion. He was watching a meeting between the President and myself, and a number of NSA execs. As soon as the strike was made the President was given word through a secure source in Manhattan. The President couldn't make an announcement to the public, knew it would be too risky – even for him – to go up against the Patriot like that. The meeting was held about an hour after the island was taken."

"What was it about?"

"The President wanted to know where these terrorists had come from. The NSA had come up with something. They believed that the preparations had begun at Trinket. The President asked for William to look into the facility and return to him more information within the next couple of hours."

"Did he find anything?"

"Enough to fill a file cabinet," Desperado replied. "A lot of it was useless and the President didn't spend much time with it."

"Where'd it all go?"

"Our copies were moved, but the NSA still has the originals."

"I have all that I can get from the NSA. They're not going to give me anything else," Brant sighed. "Where were the copies moved to?"

There was an uneasy silence on the other line. Desperado was reluctant to answer. "I can't tell you where, but I can tell you what I know."

"How could you know much? You don't have the files," Brant said, upset. Desperado seemed to treat the moment carefully, avoiding anything that could tell Brant more than he wished. He tapped his gloved fingers on his pant pocket and smiled a little smile to himself.

"I've been there," he said. But then, before Brant had returned any words, there was a beep on the phone. Eyeing the screen, he saw a number that struck him as familiar. Pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket he matched the numbers. "Sorry. I'll have to call you back."

Then, he switched to the other line, compliments of Call Waiting, and he slanted his brow and said with light concern: "Good morning, Springfield." 

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm so very sorry that it has taken me so long to update. The winter break has been hectic and busy and my desire to continue has been scarce. Still, I have decided on many events to take place in this final installment of the series over the break, and though these events have not met you on fanfiction.net, I am sure you will be thankful for my hiatus once they do. Sorry again, but I promise you one hell of a ride – the best I am capable of giving. __J__ Ciao!_


	10. The Country

chapter TEN: The Country

"Desperado," Springfield began, hastily but playfully still, sustaining an air of amusement. Desperado seemed unaffected by the voice, but he was far from happy to hear it. Springfield and he hadn't worked since the incident in the Manhattan Harbor – when he nailed Snake and brought him in under the orders of the President. And even then, he had been reluctant to partner with Springfield. Their history was far from unscarred. "I have a favor to ask."

"Strange," Desperado said, flatly, trying to make his voice completely devoid of emotion. He knew how Springfield was. He had promise as a criminal, but it seemed his intentions were good. He had been a part of the US government for some time and had never given anyone reason to suspect treachery. "I was just about to call you. I, too, have a favor to ask."

"You know the drill, Despie," he said, grinning to himself. "You help me, I help you." Desperado nodded, seemed to recall a memory of some sort, and then went on.

"What's the problem?" Desperado said.

"I need you to get some information for me," he said. "You've heard about Trinket by now, I'm sure. I need you to dig up what the President put away, what the NSA had shown to him back around the time of the Manhattan deal." Desperado's brow wrinkled a bit. He and Brant had just been discussing the very same thing. "You have the clearance, I don't."

"I have the clearance, yes, but you're not giving me enough reason to look into matters without the President's knowledge." His loyalty to the President never seemed to end. "You understand, I have clearance to the files, but I don't know the location."

It took some time for Springfield to respond. He didn't see any way to persuade Desperado. Not while he was loyal to protocol and to the 'States.' "Why were you going to call me?" he asked, thinking that the change of conversation may open room for negotiation.

"I spoke with the Vice President," Desperado admitted, "in a secure room. Sublevel security." Springfield smiled wide, a twinkle growing in his eyes.

"It's about the President, isn't it?" Springfield guessed. Desperado made no attempt to answer the question. "You remember the Harbor deal, right?" How could he forget? He had nabbed Snake, betrayed his most trustful comrade, one who would never think to betray him. Never. Springfield assumed he did, assumed the silence meant 'yes,' and went on. "Of course you do. I knew you were a little heated by it – me getting operational command. The only reason I got you was because the President recommended you to the job." Springfield paused, knew he was bringing back a coldness in Desperado's heart – one that had lain dormant for a time. "You never did learn what that was all about – why we needed Snake?"

"No," Desperado said with contempt. That was what had bothered him. It wasn't so much Springfield, though he did despise his cockiness. It was the fact that he had been completely left outside of the loop. He had been forced into fooling his friend, but was never given anything in return. He had hurt Snake, but didn't know why.

~*~

He'd found his way to the building. It was no longer in the distance, no longer made invisible by the snow. It was before him, standing like a warehouse, eyeing him closely, wondering why he had come, hoping that maybe he had come to stop whatever evil thing had bored inside it. Trinket sat on the very edge of the cliff, the cliff that fell straight into the frozen lake Snake had seen from the helicopter.

Kneeling, he touched his hand, again, to his ear and waited. This time, Brant answered as he'd hoped he would.

"Snake," Brant said, smiling to himself. He was back inside his truck and was going through town, aimlessly. He had been waiting, though only a few minutes, to hear Snake. For some reason, though, he'd been hesitant to contact him, himself.

"I'm right in front of the place," he said. "And I overheard that men on patrol," he added, pausing a moment so as to make sure he had all his facts straight. "They say a man by the name if Phillip Harte is here."

"Phillip Harte?" Brant asked, somewhat surprised, but somewhat confused. "What would he be doing there?"

"I don't know. I was hoping you could start out by telling me who he is," Snake said, his voice as full of enthusiasm, and also grimness, as ever.

"He's the chairman of Present Future," he said. Snake's silence told him it was necessary to continue. "Present Future is a rival supplier of technology devices to NewTech, your contact in the industry from your Philanthropy days." Snake knew NewTech. He and Otacon had been in touch with them for quite some time over the course of Philanthropy's engagements, but he'd never heard of Present Future. "They were run out of Russia back in the days of the Cold War, I think. Back then they were known as 'Khirshnoff.' Same name as a Russian politician of this time."

"So, it's a Russian supplier?"

"I don't know, but if it is actually Russian, that doesn't very much matter. Where it deals out of means nothing. Harte, though…he's an American." Brant seemed to ponder something else for a moment, then said again: "Give me some time. I'll talk to my sources and get you what I can. In the meantime, get into that building. So far, we know nothing – nothing about hostages, unless we can assume Harte is there against his own will."

"So I get inside and just waltz around?" Snake seemed a little upset by Brant's instructions. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

Brant thought for a time and then: "Get inside Trinket and start looking for any sign of nuclear weaponry. If there's anything, contact me. And remember, I can help you with navigating the interior. We've got the same system running in your suit now as you had at Hell's Outpost. There are a few tweaks, but nothing significant."

"What about Harte? What do you want me to do about him?" Snake asked.

"Nothing, for now. He's not part of the mission. If there's a later notice – if there's word from Trinket about a hostage situation – anything – then we can discuss changes in objectives. For now, we stick to the original directives."

"Right," Snake said, annoyed. "Maybe I'll try the smokes…see if they provide any…heat." Brant laughed a little to himself, not aloud but internally, and turned onto another street, ending the communication with that.

~*~

"There's quite a bit that you don't know yet, old friend." Desperado looked cruelly at the phone in his hand. 'Old friend,' he thought. The memory of Ocelot returned, stung in his head like a dagger. And, the memory of something else – one of the past, of many years past, long before the Harbor deal or the FACtion incident, or the situation at Hell's Outpost – "Do what the Vice asks of you. He knows best."

Desperado waited. For something, anything that could pull him away from the moment, from the whole thing that was happening, culminating into a horrifying form before his eyes. His trust was being torn between the ranks, his loyalty being questioned, his morals being tested. In a matter of hours he had been told to disobey his most trusted partner – the President – and silence a number of supposed terrorists. And, though hardly distracting, he had been told to call on Springfield and tear open a memory he had long hoped would be forgotten.

He moved his thumb over the power button to end the call.

"And get me those files," Springfield said at last, just before they were disconnected. Desperado dropped the phone into his jacket pocket and looked around, admiring all of Washington D.C. and naming the buildings as they flashed past his eyes, his feet moving under him, spinning him around. 'White House…Washington Monument…National Archives…White House…Washington Monument…National Archives…White House..Washington Monument..National Archives. 

And then, he stopped and watched forward, his vision spinning, his stomach rolling, his face pale and cold in the morning air. When he collapsed in the grass he found himself staring out over the mall, his eyes fixed on the very peak of the Washington Monument, a symbol of hope, of liberty, of the country.

And it was then that he decided, his stomach churning but his mind sharp and clear. With his back to the White House, he made the decision: His loyalty was to the country.


	11. Not Another Word Spoken

chapter ELEVEN: Not Another Word Spoken

Daves looked at the newly-filled glass sitting before him, the Coke fizzing up to the brim. There was little conversation happening at the bar and that made him a little more comfortable, but, at the same time, uneasy. The silence left him wondering just what KING was doing at the counter…wondering if it had anything to do with his own mission. It was the first time the thought had come to mind. He hadn't seriously suspected that the man had any dealings with him, but there now seemed a good possibility that KING wasn't just there for a drink – maybe he was there for Daves.

It didn't take him long to convince himself that he wasn't safe there, anymore, but he couldn't deny that he had to take a leak. It had been slowly urging him out of his seat ever since he'd finished his first glass of Coke. And, he knew as he patted his side, he always had his gun to keep him company.

So, now convinced that if KING was to confront him he'd be as safe as he ever was, he stood up from his chair and went calmly to the restroom. It turned out that it was unisex – something he realized when he saw a woman step out of one of the stalls as he moved over to a urinal. She smiled, gave him a pleasant wave, and he said "hi" as she went to the sink and washed her hands.

He felt somewhat uncomfortable unzipping in front of her, but figured there wasn't any harm. And so, he proceeded, looking straight ahead as the woman giggled a little, turned off the water, and went out the door. 'Mmm mmm,' he thought to himself, recalling her image – the full breasts, the elegant curves, the tight shirt she wore that came up to expose her belly button. All perfect. It had been far too long since he'd had sex. He wasn't a pervert or anything of, but he was a man.

The door opened. The footsteps that entered the room called Daves back to the matter at hand, back to KING, and he looked out of the corner of his eye to catch a glimpse. But he could not. Then, making sure to stay calm and appear inconspicuous, he zipped up his pants, turned to the sink, ran the water for a second after rubbing on some soap, and started the hand dryer next to the door. Once his hands were nearly dry he shot a look over his shoulder at the urinals.

KING stood, arms at his sides, feet firmly planted on the tile, and silver handgun poking out from the waves of his jacket, watching Daves with a glint of red stinging in his otherwise steel-shaded eyes. Daves couldn't look away. Not now. He turned his body toward KING.

"Funny, seeing you here," Daves said, staying loose.

"No surprise on my part," KING answered, his voice husky and low. "I've been meaning to speak to you since you showed up at Khirshnoff's…and killed him."

Daves didn't know what to say – was about to crack a joke, but wasn't sure it was the time. "Well, it's part of the job," he laughed, deciding to crack a joke.

KING pulled forth his handgun in a swift motion and fired once. Daves hadn't had time to react. Just watched as KING stepped over to the stall door he'd shot straight through and opened it wide, exposing a bloodied woman slumped against the toilet – a bullet in her forehead. KING turned to him and raised his shoulders. "She was listening," he said, "part of the job," and smiled.

Daves looked stunned, but recovered quickly. "You've got a nice shot." And then, he pulled out his own gun. He held it level to the floor, aiming for KING's forehead. KING didn't seem moved or frightened. Just stood there as Daves spoke. "What're you doing here, KING?"

"KING?" he said, smiling. "Learned that from this, huh?" He pulled the folder Daves had gotten from Khirshnoff out of his jacket. 'Damn,' Daves thought. He'd left it at his table when he'd gone to the restroom.

"What the hell –" a man griped as he came into the room. Daves turned, pointed the gun at him, but another gun rang out – KING's gun – and a bullet pierced the man in the chest and sent him through the doorway. By the time Daves had turned back, KING had his aim on him too.

"What do you say you come with me?" KING said. "And drop that. You won't get a shot in before I've put one through your heart." Daves seemed disappointed, but nothing more. He tossed his gun over to KING, who caught it and slipped it into his belt.

The two were out the front door, customers seeking shelter behind the bar and under their tables when they saw the gun that KING held between Daves' shoulder blades. Daves started in the direction of his car, but KING grabbed his arm and pulled him away. "I'll drive. I think we're headed to the same place, anyway."

Daves looked at him, curiously. "Trinket?" he asked as he was forced into the back seat of a little black Jetta. KING went around to the driver's seat and got in.

"Is that what you call it?" KING asked. Daves looked at him strangely.

"Isn't that what it's called?"

"I'm sure that's what most people know it as. But," he paused, "it's a place _I like to call 'home.'"_

~*~

Desperado had made his way back to the White House and had quickly passed through the security – flashing his ID and swiping his key card time after time before reaching the door in the office area that he then disappeared behind. Like before, he took the narrow stairwell down to another door, swiped his key card, and went down to the end of the long hall where he was then surveyed quickly by a security guard and, after that, allowed into the last room. There, like the time before, he found the Vice President, Alex Moore, sitting patiently in the chair on the opposite end of the table that, aside from the chair Desperado proceeded to take a seat in, was the only furniture in the room.

Alex said nothing, just looked at Desperado with raised eyebrows like he was waiting for an answer. Desperado, though, said nothing. Alex sighed and scooted forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. "So?" he said, "are you in?"

Desperado nodded. "The President plays second fiddle to the country," he remarked. Alex looked amused, smiled a little, and clapped his hands together.

"Good then! You spoke with Mr. Springfield?" Desperado nodded again. "And, how about Mr. Brant?"

"I spoke to him, but he didn't mention the status regarding Trinket."

"And, what did he mention?" Desperado looked up and sharply observed Alex whose eyes seemed heavy in shadow.

"Has Brant become a subject of interest?" Desperado started. The conversation was becoming much like an interrogation, and the Vice's prying questions were in a tone that Desperado did not care for. "I was under the impression that I was here for two things – to take care of a few suspected terrorists, while completely disillusioning the President of the United States," this, too, amused Alex, "and to tell you anything that I hear regarding the situation in Trinket. And, if you heard me wrong, I said that I know nothing new of the situation."

Alex leaned back a little in his chair, his eyes bright. "I can see you are a natural business man and very set in your ways, but while I applaud your strength, I must remind you that a clock is ticking," he paused, matching glances with Desperado, "and that I am the Vice President of the United States." He said the last few words with a great deal of authority, his voice meaning to intimidate, and Desperado nodded a couple times before pushing back his chair and standing up.

"You don't need to remind_ me_ of anything, Mr._ Vice President," he said, and pushed his chair back under the table. "I _am_ the one you called in for the job. So, come on, give me a little credit." _

He smiled, but Alex could do nothing more than sneer an ugly sneer and say seven quick numbers: "675-8779. Call me, sometime."

Desperado gave him two thumbs up and turned swiftly to the door. "I'll be calling you, too!" Alex said. "Make sure you know something about the situation by then."

Desperado just grinned at the door as he put his hand on the knob, and murmured quickly under his breath: "Sure thing, _boss_."

~*~

Brant had tried several times to get a hold of Desperado after he'd been cut brief, but no connection could be made. And the very moment that he had put away his cell phone, it began to ring. He pulled into the turn lane and slowed at an intersection as the lights turned from yellow to red. Slowly reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled forth the phone and looked at the Caller ID. It read 'error,' but today he couldn't risk the call being a wrong number or anything like that. He had to take everything that he could.

"Hello?" he said, eyes glued ahead, the red light shining eerily through the cold, pitch morning and falling over the dashboard.

"Hello," a voice returned. It struck Brant as strange. Not automated or fake, but taunting…and he had no face he could pin to it.

"Who is this?" he ventured to say, his voice strong, but his insides churning a little, his heart speeding up.

"I am neither friend, nor enemy." That was it. That was all he said. And then, as strangely as the call had come it went away, ended, and the red light quickly receded. But when Brant finally returned to reality, a few moments later, and readied his foot on the gas, he just looked dumbfounded at the street lights. For, while the red light had gone, no green light had followed. 

There was just the dark…and a face outside his window.

~*~

"Why do they call you KING?" Daves asked, breaking a silence that had gone on, despite the patter of the rain and the running of the engine, for nearly a half hour.

There was a long pause, one that made Daves think that he was being ignored, and then: "They don't. That's what they called my father." He seemed to be remembering. "They called _me_ Mr. President."

And then, Daves saw it. In the eyes. In the hair. And he could hear it in the voice. "Sears." 

Until the time when they would reach Trinket, there'd be not another word spoken.


	12. Philanthropy1

chapter TWELVE: Philanthropy1

Getting inside Trinket was hardly a task at all. Snake had managed to find a sizeable air duct hidden behind several loose iron bars, the cement in which they were mounted having begun to erode and crumble. And, when he made his way inside the building, he found that the insides were much the same. Walls were weak to the touch, even, and it was no warmer inside than it was out. "Hmph," he grunted disapprovingly as he examined the corridor he'd come to through the duct.

Running his hands along the walls, paint chipping and gathering in piles along the edges of the floor, he seemed to be going about the mission rather casually. But, from the looks of it, the area was largely deserted. He wondered, knowing that Trinket had only been operational for the past few days, if the team that inhabited it had even seen all the rooms, swept all the halls. But, even if they had, it didn't seem as if the area of the building in which he stood was of any real importance to them.

He just took it as laziness and continued down the hall, but before long he heard something shift around the corner and he flattened his back against the wall. Looking at his empty hand he cursed. 'No gun,' he thought. 'Hands, then.' And he edged closer to the corner and shot a quick look around it before turning out into the intersecting hallway.

He came no more than an inch from something and stepped quickly back, catching himself as he recoiled. Then, pulling a cigarette from its box and a lighter from a suit pocket he lit the cigarette and knelt on the grimy floor, letting the smoke blow out ahead of him.

A red line appeared parallel to the floor. He grimaced, upset to know that he was wrong in thinking the area had not been looked over. And then, rising swiftly to his feet and looking grim over the wide hall he tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette.

"Lasers," he grumbled, taking another breath of the smoke and then sending it through the air before him. "Joy."

~*~

Brant stared through the window, shocked and afraid, but also curious. There was a man, at least that was what he thought it was, standing outside his door, eyeing him through the window. Their eyes were locked. But, in an instant, the man pulled the door wide open and tore Brant from his seat, the seatbelt stressing and tearing under the tension. He tumbled out onto the street and the man reached inside the truck to turn the keys and pull them from the ignition. The truck scuttled, puffed a little, and went dead.

Brant peered up in the darkness, tried to identify the man, but couldn't tell that he had a face at all. It looked more like a mask. Two gleaming red slits like eyes and one circle of red at the bridge of his nose. When he grabbed the shoulder of Brant's jacket and pulled him up from the pavement Brant slipped a sidearm from where it had been concealed and pinned it against the man's chest.

Both of them froze in that position, neither of them sure what the other would do.

Brant was breathing heavier than usual, a scratch from which blood was slowly seeping had come across his cheek. "Who are you?" he demanded more than he asked. The other man stared back at him, though Brant couldn't really tell that he was doing that at all because of the mask, and then said, simply: "I am neither friend nor enemy."

And with a quick twist, he stepped out of the way of Brant's gun, snatched it from his palm, and sent him reeling backward against the hard pavement.

Lights out.

~*~

Desperado had moved to a bench on the sidewalk just beyond the gates of the White House lawn and pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket. Alex Moore was a real pain in the ass. Sure, he had to give him credit for being the Vice President, but he really couldn't stand the guy. Trust, too, was hard to see in the man, but Springfield had sold him on the operation. For some reason, Springfield's word seemed strong and true. That was certainly a surprise, seeing as Desperado had never had a strong liking for him either.

He put the cell phone to his ear and let it ring. The moon was beginning to fade into the sky as the sun, though absent from the scene, sent an orange haze from beneath the horizon. It was comforting, seeing daylight come. The darkness of the morning, particularly this morning, had cast an ominous feeling over Washington, but with the coming of day Desperado felt an increasing desire to hit the hot dog stand on G and 13th street. It was right across from Café 1200 and right outside a Panera. The thought of Panera Bread aroused as much delight as the hot dog stand, but he was a usual customer at the stand and he'd never be able to show his face there again if he got caught by Fred – the hot dog extraordinaire - while trying to slip into Panera.

He was suddenly drawn back to the eighth ring of Brant's cell phone. Pulling the phone from his ear he eyed it strangely and then slipped it into his jacket pocket again. "Well," he said to himself as he stood. "Maybe we _should_ pay old Fred a visit."

Stepping up to the curb, he pulled his wallet from his pant pocket and checked to make sure he had money. Then, slipping it back in his pocket, he made a subtle wave to a passing taxi and it screeched to a stop before him. He winced, not sure he wanted to ride with this guy, and then stepped back and waved him on.

"Maybe, I'll just walk then."

~*~

[00:00:00]

SAT Search…

//Enter Search Loc Below

   USER INPUT: Trinket, Russia

SAT Connected…Tracking…Locked

Awaiting Transmission… … … … …

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - || | ||| || - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Codec Transmission Detected

CODEC Transmission Recording… [00:48:26]

//Recording to LAPTOP

RECORD LOC: Moscow, Russia…

CALLER LOC: Scramble Device Present… … …Unknown

RECEIVER LOC: Trinket…

UNIDENT 1: "So, what's happening there?"

     UNIDENT 2: "Not much. It looks like they're pretty lax on security. I found a hall of sensors, though. Looks like they were still expecting a few uninvited guests."

UNIDENT 1: Pause {00:00:03} "But you got through them all right?"

     UNIDENT 2: Pause {00:00:05} "Yea, but…listen, I saw him…he's here. Just when I got through the lasers he showed up."

UNIDENT 1: "Who?"

     UNIDENT 2: "You know…Snake."

UNIDENT 1: "He's there…?"

     UNIDENT 2: "Sure is. And he got a trim."

UNIDENT 1: "Finally wizened up…how's he look?"

     UNIDENT 2: "Not bad. Younger than he was when I knew him. Took off some weight, too, it looks like."

UNIDENT 1: "Were you watching him that long?"

     UNIDENT 2: "He was staring right at me for a couple of minutes. He knew the lasers were there. Blew some smoke over them."

UNIDENT 1: "That's Snake, all right…he didn't see you?"

     UNIDENT 2: "No way. The camouflage works great. I forgot to mention that."

UNIDENT 1: "No problem. So, where are you now?"

     UNIDENT 2: "I was on my way to the cold bay, but I imagine you'll want me to scout out Snake now, huh?"

UNIDENT 1: "Make sure he stays out of the second building – don't let him cross the connecting bridge."

     UNIDENT 2: "Why would you wa -?"

UNIDENT 1: "Keep him away from there…for now, at least."

     UNIDENT 2: "All right then."

UNIDENT 1: "Stay safe."

     UNIDENT 2: "Will do, Otacon."

//Computer ID Change

UNIDENT 1  _rename_ OTACON

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - || | ||| || - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

CODEC Transmission Ended… [00:51:22]

Archiving to C://LOG…Archived

Reenter Transmission Access PASSCODE for replay

//Enter Title Below

   USER INPUT: Philanthropy 1

//SAVED


	13. No Good Reason

chapter THIRTEEN: No Good Reason

Desperado turned the corner onto 13th Street and surveyed the street. The hot dog stand was just a little way down on his side of the road. There were benches outside several of the stores that he passed, and one outside Café 1200 on the opposite side of the road where a younger man sat, legs crossed, reading a newspaper. He turned a glance to Desperado and waved, then went back to his reading. 'Friendly people,' Desperado thought.

Coming up to the stand, he stepped up to Fred, legs soar from the long walk, and threw out his arms for an embrace. Fred looked up, snarled, and placed a Bratwurst in an all ready soggy bun with his tongs. Then, he shoved it at Desperado who took it with a look of confusion on his face. "Condiments on the counter," Fred growled.

"No hug?" Desperado asked, letting a smile break on his lips. Fred tried not to look at him.

"Hardly any service," Fred said. "Damn bread factory. What the hell kinda business is bread anyway?" Fred looked over his shoulder at an uncomfortable teenager who was waiting with a five dollar bill in his hands. "Whatchya want?" Fred asked.

"Two hot dogs," the kid squealed and Fred cut two buns, fit inside them two hot dogs, and passed them over his shoulder, in exchange for the five dollar bill, a dollar of which he returned to the kid who then scurried away, forgetting his condiments or maybe just trying to get away.

"Look at that," Desperado said. "You scared the poor kid off. Hey!" he called, waving as the kid raced in the opposite direction and turned the corner. "Condiments are on the counter!" he laughed, and the boy was out of sight. He looked back at Fred, but he didn't seem especially thrilled. "Now, come on Fred, I've come here almost every other day for the past year and I haven't seen you like this once."

"I told ya, the business is slow," he said, facing Desperado who looked back at him with a shattered smile on his face. "Ya want me to smile, I'll smile, but if ya want me to be happy all of a sudden – then too bad." Desperado's arms fell to his sides and he sent a look over the glossy windows of Panera Bread. Then, looking back at his soggy Brat, he sat down, back against the hot dog stand.

"Hey Fred, could you grab me the ketchup?" he asked, seeming distracted almost. Fred grunted and held the ketchup bottle over Desperado's shoulder. He reached up and squirted it along the Brat, then set it down on the sidewalk beside him. Fred, all ready annoyed and irritated, threw up his arms in frustration.

"I give you the ketchup, you set it on the sidewalk!" he cried, bending over and picking the bottle off the path. Desperado took a bite of his Brat and chewed vigorously; paying close attention to Fred's reactions, but making sure it seemed he wasn't interested at all.

He bit off another chunk and chewed, looking out over the street and watching the cars that went by in a blur or sound.

He bit off a third piece and chewed. Before he swallowed, he said: "How 'bout mustard?" Fred looked back at him with a glare of utter amazement. 

"You hate mustard!" he said. 'How thick can he get!' he thought to himself, and then set the mustard down on the sidewalk. Desperado looked over at his side and laughed a muffled laugh as he acted to layer on the mustard. Lifting it over his head, he set it on the edge of the stand and continued eating.

Finally, with one last bite, he finished his Brat. He brushed off his jacket and stood, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. He held two twenties in his palm and when Fred saw them he looked angrily at him. "No! No!" he said, upset. "I don't take donations," he protested. Desperado eyed the money in his hand, brows bending.

"Donation?" he asked. "This is exact change. One soggy Bratwurst with ketchup and mustard: twenty dollars," he pointed to an imaginary price on the big sign that was pinned to the stand. 

"You didn't have mustard," Fred said. Desperado smiled.

"No, I didn't," he said. "Then…nineteen bucks."

"So, why do you have forty there?" Fred asked. Desperado looked, again, at his money and laughed.

"Heh, well the rest_ is_ a donation." Fred tried not to laugh, and succeeded, but he did not succeed in suppressing a smile. 

Desperado closed his eyes for just one moment, laughed, shook his head, and when they opened, his hand still outstretched with the money held tightly in his fingers, a red dot flashed over Fred's forehead and a spray of blood speckled his face.

Fred fell back and Desperado turned swiftly, shooting a look up on the roof tops. Crowds and couples hurried off, screaming, but Desperado spotted no one on the roofs. He turned back and fell down beside Fred, looking sadly over his face, which was unscathed aside from the bullet imbedded in his skull.

He shook his head, frowning, and bowed to the body before standing again and touching the Desert Eagle at his waist, hidden beneath his long rain coat. But, as he was about to pull it from its holster, his phone rang.

Dropping behind the hot dog stand and feeling the wind of another bullet through his hair, he answered the call.

"What is this?" he said fiercely.

"Desperado!" It was Alex. Alex Moore. Vice President. What did he have to do with this? "Find cover, now!"

"What the hell?"

"I told you," he said. "We're watching your every move. You're always being monitored."

Desperado thought to curse, but barred himself. "Did you see the shooter? Do you know where he's positioned?"

"We're working on that," he said. "Try not to worry. Are you safe where you are?"

Desperado turned his head around the side of the hot dog stand, shot a cruel look at Fred, and made a painful expression. "I'm behind a hot dog stand. A standard sniper rifle would send a bullet through this thing like it was air. I guess I don't have much chance if he pins it through the stand. But, I can get into Panera if I need to."

"You should be fine, now. Our people are on location. The shooter is probably on the move. Just stay put. We'll get things worked out and I'll send an agent to retrieve you."

"I don't need an agent," Desperado said, leaving no question. "Just tell me where you think the shooter was positioned."

"I'd say the roof of Café 1200. Just across the street," Alex said. Desperado nodded, having assumed just the same, and looked around the stand again, just to make sure no red dots were sweeping around and no gun barrels resting on rooftops. "But, don't go trying to – " Desperado had darted around the corner of the stand and had made a quick dash across the street, finding cover beneath the overhang outside the café.

He slipped his handgun from its holster and flattened against the brick of the building, staying to the left of the big display windows where they were promoting their new desserts. And, watching the street and waving frantic people away from the scene, he twisted around and aimed through the glass.

All clear to enter.

On the back wall, between two swinging doors that led into the kitchen, was a bulletin board nearly covered with menus and calendars and fliers and audition and application notices for places throughout the District. Desperado went cautiously forward, quickly taking notice of the many meals left unfinished on their plates. His gun, a Desert Eagle, two clips scotch taped to either side of the barrel, as he was known for doing, was pointed in all directions. He never moved his hips or his stance, only his arm. It was a much more effective method than shifting your whole body to aim in another direction. He'd learned it when he was in the U.S. Special Forces. That had been a long time ago.

Going over to the bulletin board, he swung his arm to the right and aimed up the stairs that led to the second floor where there was a small apartment that the owner of the Café rented out to the homeless for small sums of money. There was no one on the stairs, no shadow cast along the wall, not hand on the banister.

He lowered his attentiveness and took a look at the bulletin board. Nothing interested him. Looking through the little circular window in the swinging door before him, he forced his way through it and into the kitchen. Steam still rose from the pots and pans, and water boiled noisily over the brims, evaporating on the stoves. Much of the room was impossible to see from where he stood, as smoke and steam clouded the view.

But, he crept forward. He let his arm go down to his side; his gun still gripped in his hand, and tried to navigate the kitchen. Left, right, forward…he went around the room for quite a while, hoping someone would grab him, but no one did.

Until he was going to leave.

He heard no voice or sound other than his own chest bruising against the flooded tile floor. He tried to raise his arm and point the Desert Eagle at whatever thing had pounced upon him, but his arm was being forced against the floor, and his face…his whole body was pinned down. He couldn't move at all, and the greatest pain he felt was his second Desert Eagle driving into his hip.

"Desperado," the thing on his back whispered into his ear. "Leave it alone." His grip was loosened on his Desert Eagle and the gun was forced out of his hand. He tried to reach for it, tried to get it back, but even when he felt the weight shift off the top of him, even when he was able to twist around and stand, he could not have it. For whoever had pinned him to the floor was gone.

Bursting through the kitchen door, hearing it squeak as it swung behind him, he saw no one hurrying into the street, and no one still within the Café. Upstairs. That was the only place he could be.

Desperado raced up the stairs, pulling his second Desert Eagle from its holster. At the landing, he noted the door to the apartment left ajar and pushed inside. Surveying the clean room, walls white and sparkling, bed made and neat, clock ticking and keeping perfect time, he turned back out of the room and went up to the next landing: another door.

He pushed open the door and found himself on a rickety fire escape. He saw a ladder to his left and grabbed the rungs, quickly moving upward, stepping over the lip on the edge of the roof, and finding himself alone on the rooftop. He went to the edges and looked down on the streets and into the alleys. No one.

Running his hand in his hair, he shoved his Desert Eagle back in its holster, feeling the other holster cold, barren, empty. A gust of air was passing through the District, the clouds racing in the warm yellow sky, the trees along the mall waving gently. Desperado's hair twisted in the breeze, his shirt now torn and a cut carved upon his cheek, and felt the cool wind bathe him, calm him, soothe him. He went to the lip of the roof and stood on it, letting the wind grab at his jacket and nearly send him over the edge.

But it never did, even as he almost hoped it would, and when he opened his eyes again to the world all he saw was the crowd surrounding Fred, his friend, who had been murdered for no good reason.


	14. Cold and Clear

chapter FOURTEEN: Cold and Clear

Snake was through the sensors in a matter of minutes. They had presented challenges to him in his early years, but navigating them now was hardly a thing to worry about. When he did reach the other side of the hall he stopped, the two glass doors ahead, foggy and shrouded by what appeared to be ice on its surface. Snake went down on his knee and put his hand to his ear, attempting to connect with Brant, but he had no luck in doing so.

"Where is he?" he pondered quietly and stood. He looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming down the hall and put his hand on the silver handle mounted on the glass door. Cautiously, he pulled it open and slipped through the gap.

The terminals scattered about the room, broken into segments by thin frosted walls like those of cubicles, caught his attention first, but what cemented itself in his mind was the cold. It bit at his face as the snow had done outside.

Rubbing his hands together, he stepped forward just as a ringing erupted in his ear. Twisting so that his back rested against one of the thin walls that divided the terminals throughout the room, he put his hand to his ear and stuttered in beginning.

"Brant?" he blurted, his language shaky and broken.

"No, silly," a voice returned, young and seemingly overjoyed. Snake looked oddly ahead, as if the voice was now standing before him, a body matching to it. "Remember me, Snake?" He did. And he was glad to hear her, surprisingly so.

"Mei Ling," he said.

~*~

Desperado made his way back down the fire escape and the stairwell, and went out the front door of Café 1200. The street was still quiet. People were turning their heads away from the body beside the hot dog stand, the body of Desperado's friend, but they did not seem surprised or frightened. Only disgusted.

The Feds weren't on the scene yet. Desperado imagined, or hoped rather, that Alex's agents had caught the shooter before he sped out of the District, but he couldn't be sure. He wondered, as he stood on the side of the road, who the agents had been, or where they'd been for that matter. They obviously knew where he was and Alex had said that they were on location, yet Desperado had not seen a single one of them – or noticed a single one.

'They must be good,' he thought, and then slowly crossed the street, no cars coming from either way. A strong crowd had formed on the opposite sidewalk while most had passed the body and gone on with their business. It wasn't until he saw the flashes of their cameras flashing, and heard the commentaries commentating that he paid any attention to the News vans lined up along the sidewalk.

'They work quicker than the police,' Desperado thought. Just then, as he began splitting through the mass of people, sirens came down the street and blipped off as a number of police cruisers screeched to a stop behind the News vans.

Desperado looked over his shoulder and heard them yelling orders for everyone to move back. He peered through the crowd and looked pitifully upon Fred, his eyes vacant, mouth still curved – but in a frown, not a smile as it had been when Desperado last looked at him.

"Get back!" the policemen cried, pulling people away. Desperado realized how the masses were dwindling, but didn't want to leave Fred like that. He looked up once and saw people being wretched from where they stood and thrown roughly aside as yellow tape was wrapped around the area and around Desperado.

A policeman came up to him as he looked about in confusion as to why he'd been left within the crime scene and said: "Mr. Moore is expecting a call." Desperado looked sharply at the policeman who then tipped his hat and turned away.

"How does a policeman know who I am?" Desperado said aloud, provoking the policeman to turn and walk calmly back to him.

"Because a policeman is trying to keep you alive today," the officer said, angrily. "You're filling some pretty big shoes. You're important today, and people are going to want you dead." He looked over his shoulder at the corpse on the sidewalk. "The kind of people who put a bullet through that associate of yours."

"What do you know?" Desperado said, grabbing the man's shoulder as he began to turn away.

"I only know what I'm told." He started off.

"And what are you told?" Desperado said, boldly.

"Make the call, Desperado," and he went away.

Desperado wandered out of the Crime Scene, passing under the yellow tape and not taking another look at Fred. The streets were filled now, with people and cars alike, and the sun was moving up beyond the horizon.

His phone shook in his jacket as he went down the sidewalk, leaving the commotion behind. And, picking it out of his pocket, he checked the Caller ID: 'Brant.' Raising it to his ear and pressing it ON, he waited for the phone to connect. When it did, a voice came over the line – whispered.

"We have him," the voice proclaimed, slithering through Desperado's head. But, the line did not disconnect. There was a heavy silence as the caller waited for Desperado to answer. And then, grinning, he did.

"Good."

~*~

Brant didn't know how to describe how he felt when he woke. He knew damn well that the back of his head was pounding, reverberating with pain, and that he was somewhere inside. He couldn't hear the rain where he was, and he couldn't feel the breeze anymore either.

Sitting up a little, he tried ignoring the pain in his skull. There was a wall to his back, one that he slid up against, and ahead in what was engulfed in shadow there was a window. There was no sun outside, as far as he could tell, but the sky was no longer pitch black.

It was a dark blue now. A shade that did nothing to inspire hope. But, heck, he didn't know where he was. He knew he was inside somewhere, but other than that –

Something was in the corner of the room, hidden in the dark. He could tell from the light through the window. It grazed the shoulder of a creature, its body held awkwardly even as it sat. Peering through the shadows, trying to find other reflections of light, Brant stayed as motionless as he could. Whatever the thing was, he didn't want it to know he was awake.

But, he guessed, when a red circle lit up where the creature's face would be and two red slits like eyes along with it, the creature knew full well that he wasn't sleeping any longer.

A song of terror beat in his chest as he watched, his whole body lying still through fear of the two red eyes that glowed cold and clear.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey! If you're reading now, you're probably noticing that I'm beginning to return to my routine of updating almost every other day. This is how I used to go about things, but lack of fans and reviews has bogged down my writing quite a bit. I do plan to continue uploading chapters on a more regular basis, but I would greatly appreciate more frequent reviews. They certainly help to boost my enthusiasm. Thanks, and I hope you're all enjoying!

espresso


	15. A Ghost

chapter FIFTEEN: A Ghost

"Awake," a voice came slithering from the shaded corner as the crumpled creature shifted to stand. Brant sat up, flattening his back against the hard, cold wall and reaching around his beltline, thinking maybe he'd not been stripped of his gun. It was a vain attempt, he figured, but when he put his hand on his holster he felt a cool metal shape within it. Whipping it from the holster, he aimed his Mark 23 ahead in the darkness and waited for the nearly invisible creature to stop and retreat, but it did nothing of the sort. It continued forward until it was just before Brant and then looked down upon him, the red eye stinging in the empty room.

"You didn't take my gun," Brant said, staring upward. "Why?"

The creature cocked its head then turned to face the little cut in the wall through which the wide rays of moonlight were streaming. "Guns are useless to me…and bullets harmless." Turning back to Brant and reaching out for him, almost lunging forward to grab him and lift him up, two shots rang out – but even before the first gunshot sounded, the creature became a swift blur and a sharp shining edge was caught in the moonlight.

The bullets went absurdly off course and dug into the walls to either side of Brant. Looking up, horrified and in awe, he let the gun go down. "How – you _aren't human!"_

"A part of me remains such," the creature said, returning to the opposite corner and concealing the shining edge somewhere as it stood watching through the window, but out of the way of the moonlight.

"Who are you?" Brant struggled to say, his heart slowly returning to normal. He'd been in hostage situations before, dealt with nearly every sort of military operation imaginable, but never had he seen two bullets deflected before his very eyes – and at point blank range. "What's your name?" he said again, trying to imagine the thing's body even though he could see no more than the glowing red eye.

"I am like you," the voice came again, only this time not as slurred or chilling. More matter-of-factly. "I have no name." And the red eye slowly faded until the corner was consumed by shadow, not a thing remaining in its place.

~*~

"Mei Ling," he said.

She giggled. "It's been a long time. How have you been, Snake?"

Snake groaned, mind returning to the cold. "I've been better," he said. Mei Ling giggled again, that funny sound she always seemed to utter whether you'd made a funny joke or not said anything at all. She was always happy, it seemed. "So – where've you been? Brant had told me to expect your call. I was beginning to think you didn't want to talk to me," he joked.

"That's ridiculous," she smiled. "I've been running some names for Mr. Brant. He sounded urgent when he requested my help."

"Hmph, what names?" Snake said, his voice still shaky. He tried covering it up, but he couldn't. The cold was terrible.

"Most of them went by without any suspicion, but one caught my eye. William Beck."

"Will Beck? Director of the NSA?"

"That's right. I met him several years back when the government first heard my name and caught wind of my reputation. They were excited to have me there, but Beck wasn't the least bit enthused. He put on a fake smile, hugged me, and strode off down the hall."

"That made you suspicious? A little premature, huh?" Snake rolled some thoughts over in his mind as he waited for Mei Ling to respond.

"It wasn't that that made me suspicious. I was looking through his files, personal history, psychological reports, and things of that sort, when I came across a few dates."

"Dates?"

"He was reported in a meeting at the White House just a matter of minutes before the Discovery was seized in the Manhattan Harbor two years ago. When you…" she stopped. Two years ago. That had been when Snake was taken down. He hadn't remembered the incident well, but it still stung in his mind, tormented him day after day. He had heard the voice of the man who'd captured him. He knew full well who it had been. It hurt him, made him angry whenever he thought about it. "I'm sorry," Mei Ling said, apologetically. She knew the failed operation had crippled his pride, but it hadn't hurt him that bad. By all means, Snake was still the man he was before the incident. He was still Solid Snake. That wouldn't change.

"It's fine," he said. "What do you think that has to do with anything, though?"

"I think he may have known of the operation before it began."

"That's assuming the President and the rest of the White House staff had an idea as well."

"They would have to if the meeting were being held there, which it was. The government gets threats and intelligence reports day after day. Surely, they would have known that something like this was going to happen."

"Sounds like they were too late," Snake said. "Just minutes before the incident – I doubt they had full knowledge, then."

"You're probably right," she sighed. "Anyway, Snake, is there anything you need?"

"I wouldn't mind one of those Anti-Freezing Peptides right about now," he joked. "Even if it meant Naomi had to poke me with her damn needles too. By the way, talk to her at all lately?"

"Naomi?" Mei Ling asked. "No. Last I heard she was working with foreign governments to promote new medical programs. Certain benefactors have helped her move through the ranks. A lot of work in the Middle East if I remember right. Everyone needs medical assistance there. That was almost two years ago, though."

"So, she got out of the country," Snake said. "Not much of a surprise. I doubt she had many fans back in the States, considering her history."

"I guess," Mei Ling said, sounding uncomfortable. She knew Snake had gotten over the FOX-DIE complications, at least for the most part, but it felt wrong to listen to him speaking about her. "Well, I should try and get in touch with Mr. Brant. If anything comes up I'll contact you. And be sure to call me on the Codec whenever you need me. You know the number."

"Sure do," he said, almost forgetting the icy mist that sprayed before him every time he exhaled. And, with that, the transmission was ended.

Looking over his shoulder and through the clear, frosted cubicle walls to make sure that no one had found his or her way into the room while he was speaking with Mei Ling, he stood, seeing no one. Ahead, he saw the double doors – Plexiglas like the last he'd passed through. There was no real light coming through these doors, just more of that odd fluorescent blue that acted much like a black light. Not for lighting at all, but for something else.

Snake went casually to the double doors, breathing the stiff air in and out making his throat raw and setting it ablaze with pain. Putting his hand to the door handle, he tugged and – suddenly, there was a purr and a hum and then a click that sent him twirling around in surprise.

In the corner of the room, a computer monitor had blipped on and the terminal to which it was wired began working furiously. He hurried over to it, leaning over the desk and watching as the computer booted up. Commands ran by the screen, noting the viable operations that were carried out before the terminal was truly operational. It scanned the hard drive, checked for viruses, made sure all required accessories were attached, and then the desktop took over the screen.

But, what Snake saw next surprised him. It wasn't what he'd expected, of course what was there to expect? As he watched, the cursor ran across the screen and highlighted a certain icon. Then, the computer started up humming again and the screen was filled with what looked to be some sort of code, but as Snake looked closer he saw something more there. It wasn't just simple code. It was genetic code.

Line after line of A's T's G's and C's flashed by, filling the monitor and going on and on beyond it.

And then, as he continued to watch, another window popped up and his face screwed up in anger and shock. Staring at him, in bold print, were three words:

"Welcome back, Snake."

~*~

'They know I'm here…how the hell?'

The codec began to ring. Snake ignored it, but only for a moment, and then touched his hand to his ear, his eyes never shifting away from that glowing monitor, that purring terminal. "Yea?" he said, his tone indicating his preoccupation, as well as his confusion.

"Snake, what you're staring at right now is a sample of genetic code." Mei Ling.

"You see it, then. What about this message. Someone knows I'm here…how the hell?" Snake ranted.

"Of course I saw it," she said. "The equipment you and Otacon used during your Philanthropy days is considered out-dated by today's standards. And besides, US equipment is far more advanced than anything on the market today. Of course, thanks also go to Present Future for that."

Snake looked strangely ahead, side-tracked by the tangent, while still trying to concentrate on the code and the message. "Present Future? The United States gets equipment from them?"

"Oh yeah," she said, her pace increasing, a sign that she quite enjoyed sharing her apparent wealth of information. "Ever since FOX-HOUND was re-established as a body of the United States Special Forces Present Future has been working closely with US tech-specialists on more than three fourths of the military's field and combat gadgets."

"Isn't Present Future a Russian company?" Snake asked.

"Technically, but it holds closer ties to the United States than to Russia," she responded. "Anyway, to the point," Mei Ling said and Snake stored her information in his mind for when he would need to address it later, "your suit shares some of its inner-workings from the suit you wore at Hell's Outpost. The photographic aspect of this is different, though. At Hell's Outpost, when you're heart rate increased dramatically, a picture was taken by a miniature lens engineered into the chest of the suit. But, in the suit you're wearing now, there's a sensor that activates only when there is a drastic change in light, temperature, or your vital signs. When any one of these changes occur, the sensor activates and five different lenses – three in the chest, and one on each leg – film the scene until the sensors read normal again. Each and every one of those 'home movies' is transmitted right to my desktop."

"Neat," Snake said, shaking his head and rolling his eyes, "but what about this code? And how the hell was the computer operated without me even turning it on?" There was a short pause. "And how do they know I'm here…let alone my name?"

"Snake, I have no idea what the code is doing, or how the computer was being run from a different location, but," she said, then hesitated. "Hold on, just a second. I'll get right back to you – Mr. Brant is trying to contact me. I'll tell him what you found."

"Thanks," Snake said, and ended the transmission before saying good-bye. Then, he looked back at the monitor, stared at it, was mesmerized by it. That endless code, the A's the G's the C's the T's – they burned into his eyes, painfully so, but he couldn't turn away. The monitor's eerie glow kept him glued there, unable to shift his attention. But then, just as it felt in his heart that he was on the very edge of something huge, that he was looking through a foggy glass but was finally finding forms of people, outlines, and silhouettes behind it – the code disappeared, the message window blinked off, and the desktop faded into black.

All that remained was a black command screen, a prompting program designed like the late MS-DOS. And then, as the white block that was the cursor blinked and blinked and blinked and blinked, Snake sat down in the chair before the terminal and rested his fingertips on the keys of the keyboard. Slowly, he began to type "Who are you," but he stopped himself and deleted it hastily before he was able to push 'Enter'. He couldn't admit that he was there, but he didn't even know what the black screen meant, or what would happen if he entered a message. Would it be sent to whoever had tried to contact him or would another line pop up beneath what he had written and tell him he'd entered an incorrect command?

He watched that blinking cursor, watched it and watched it, wanted to type his message again and enter it and then start a conversation and talk all day, childishly, foolishly drawn by something that deeply intrigued him, something that he couldn't quite pinpoint still – but he quickly reached out and pushed the power on the CPU and continued to stare ahead, even as the blinking cursor was gone, swept up in that black void.

But then, he saw something more frightening – a pale reflection – and he heard a voice call from a place to his back. "The commander's message," the voice called, and Snake twisted around in the chair. "I assume you got it?"

Standing there, or floating maybe, cheek bones bulging, skin shining, eye – the other a black prosthetic – staring him down from above, was the cryptic figure of a man. He looked starved and pale as death, but as his lips curled in a cruel, dark fashion, he turned in the air and was gone. He did not walk off, did not disappear…but, just…no longer was. He shifted out of being, his long, knobby fingers passing away with him, and Snake stayed sitting there, stunned, words rolling over in his mind that seemed to jump out at him.

"I hope you enjoy company," was what he thought. He didn't know why, or if it was something the ghost had said to him before 'shifting' as it did. They were simply words that came to mind, and the voice that spoke them in his mind was one without identification. He knew not where the message came and did not act upon it then. He just stayed sitting there, stunned…like he'd seen a ghost.

He stayed that way until the doors opened from the hallway and three men came in with guns over their shoulders. That was when he moved. And he moved quick, just as the ghost wanted him to, still watching from some other place.

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: A ghost, eh? ^_^ Well, I am SOO deeply sorry for having been absent for so long. But, my days aren't as free as they once were, and my interest in this trilogy is slowly diminishing – much of the plot is getting fuzzy and complicated in my mind and every time I write a line it just seems as if that thing I write shouldn't happen yet or should be saved for later. Unfortunately, to be truthful I will say that I DON'T think I'll be updating regularly, even though I am starting it back up. I'm tired of telling you one thing and then not being able to deliver, so let's just consider this a LONG work in progress. But, I DO promise you – I will finish it, whether it be this month, or the next, or far past that. We shall see…but for anyone who is still reading, I am sorry I have not been coming through for you, but I am very thankful that you have not abandoned this story._

_Thank you and please – do enjoy as I continue to update! CIAO!_


	16. The Big Blue Balloon

chapter SIXTEEN: The Big Blue Balloon

He dove forward and squeezed under one of the cubicle desks as the doors to the hall way swung open. Three men, suited in all black uniforms – vests of one and a half inch Kevlar, pockets and compartments stocked with ammunition and flash bangs, belt loops fastened with grenade fuses, and goggles covering what skin their ski masks did not. They carried Naval MP5s and AKs, their straps slung over their shoulders, and were equipped with various side arms, ranging from the Five Seven to the Glock 18.

Their knees were bent and they crept into the room slowly and cautiously, placing one foot perfectly in front of the other. One of them moved around the center cluster of cubicles, one of which Snake was hidden under, to the left, another to the right, and the third inspected a circuitry closet to the right of the doors to the hall. The two moving around the center cluster clicked on little flashlights mounted to the tops of their MP5 and AK and shined them above and below the desks. Snake waited, knowing that they would come to him in moments, knowing that he had no way to escape the situation.

'Damn,' he thought, searching his waistline for a gun but, unsurprised, finding none. His first enemy encounter and all ready they'd caught him. The two soldiers moved around and met at the back of the room, then began to kneel, and shined their lights under the last desk. Snake was caught in their rays, caught huddled under the desk, an intruder. But, as the soldier's eyes grew wide, surprised to find anyone, the doors to the hall swung open wide and Snake, seeing the diversion of attention in the solders' eyes, swung his leg out and sent one of them on his back. The other stood, quickly, stepping away from the cubicle as he aimed for the door, and raised his MP5 to the silhouette standing in the doorway.

"Don't move!" he cried, holding his weapon steadily. The other soldier, who now lay on his back, managed to regain a grip on his AK and aimed it back at Snake who was then forced to stay still. The figure caught in the doorway raised a gun and matched the stance of the soldier across the room from him. "Drop your weapon! Drop it!"

The man inspecting the circuitry closet pulled out his Five Seven and approached the figure in the doorway from the right. "Drop the gun!" he hollered, his Russian accent seeming forced. "Drop it now!" He pushed the head of his Five Seven into the figure's temple and looked apprehensively to his comrades at the back of the room. "Drop the gun, soldier," he said again, this time more firmly.

The figure turned its gaze to the man beside him, centering the enemy's Five Seven in his forehead, and smiled wide. "Which one?" Suddenly, he swung his other arm up and pinned the head of a USP under the enemy's chin. Snake wished he could tell what was happening, wanted to do something but could not.

"You'll shoot me," Snake said. The man who still lay on his back, his neck turned up so that he could still see who he was aiming at, simply looked on. "You're no rookie," Snake continued. "You have a sure mark. Who are you with?" The man didn't answer him, just made a move to get onto his knee, and as he did Snake noticed the SOCOM holstered at his waist. Snake's hand searched around behind his back, sorting through wires and power cords. "You Russian?"

Snake found something and pressed it. There was a click and then a hum and a purr, and the terminal above booted up. The soldier aiming at him looked shocked up at it and Snake shot his leg forward again, snapping the enemy's wrist and sending his AK out of his hands and skittering across the floor. The soldier winced in pain but reached for the gun as Snake leapt forward, pinning him on the floor and reaching at his belt for the SOCOM that had caught his attention.

Slipping it out of the holster, he extended his arm across the soldier's face and snapped his neck, then spun over, onto his back, and aimed up at the soldier who had turned his attention from the figure in the doorway and was ready to fire on Snake. Two shots rang and the soldier dropped backward, two holes in his chest.

The two men by the doorway shifted their attention, but the unknown figure slid away from the enemy's aim and pulled the trigger of his USP once. The bullet was sent through the soldier's jaw, the roof of his mouth, and out the top of his head, spraying slaughter in all directions.

Snake flipped onto his feet and stood swiftly, aiming now at the door. The figure, blurred by distance and the poor blue lighting, pushed open the doors to the hallway and slipped out of the room. Snake started around the middle set of cubicles, stepping over the bodies of those who'd fallen, and went to the doors. But, by the time he reached them and pushed through them there was no one there. No one at all.

Snake walked back through the room, looking first over the body by the doorway. His arms and legs were twisted awkwardly as he lay there, silent and without breathing, and his face was broken backward from the force of the gunshot. A stream of deep blue blood seeped from the top and bottom of his head and spread like a puddle across the floor. The lights changed everything, made everything in the room different than it really was, made that blood seem no more important than blue Kool-aid.

Made the slaughter seem like a video game. 

But, it wasn't a video game. The lights created illusions, blurred the truth. That blood, that corpse – they were both crimson and pale…dead. It wasn't something happening miles and miles away, something you only saw on television, like a war played out in someone else's back yard, it was death and it was right in front of him. It was slaughter and it was terrible.

Snake closed his eyes and turned his back on the body. He'd dealt with death for as long as he remembered, but he hadn't enjoyed or managed to completely divert its effect, even after all this time. It never got easier. Never.

~*~

The horns and sirens of the emergency vehicles and news vans died out behind him. The breeze was still picking up strength, the trees planted along the sidewalks swaying, their leaves rattling. Slowly, as he passed back into the heart of the city, the chaos faded and he was again witnessing normal DC life: couples walking their dogs, businessmen and women marching down the sidewalks with their cell phones and headsets and wearing their heavy black suits or skirts. A little girl was parading through a grassy lot, vacated weeks before and made into a small play ground, holding the string of a giant blue balloon that bobbed up and down with each of her strides. Her parents didn't seem to be around.

Desperado watched her from the opposite side of the street, stopping and waving even though her back was turned to him. He smiled and then checked the traffic before passing across the street and seeking out a wooden bench mounted in the sidewalk before the playground. Easing himself onto the bench, he laid back and stretched his arms over the back of the seat. All the while, he watched the little girl and her giant blue balloon, her wide smile and long ponytails, her dark complexion and her emerald eyes.

Then, shaking in his jacket pocket, was his phone. He was reluctant to answer, but pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open. "Hello?" he said, initially.

"I explained the situation to him, and he is willing to comply." It was that same whispering voice, scratchy and chilling. Desperado's cheerful expression melted into a sudden firmness, but his eyes stayed set on the little girl.

"Willing?" Desperado inquired.

"He understands our motives," the creature said and Desperado nodded uneasily.

"Does he know about 'her' involvement?"

"Mei Ling's?" the creature returned. "I don't know."

"And what about Snake?" Desperado said, a coldness washing over him, a great guilt and worry.

"No news."

Desperado could only imagine what would happen when Snake learned that Brant had been captured by himself. And if so, he wondered also if Snake would learn that he was the one who had taken him in those years ago on the tanker. It had been a long time since they'd spoken…"Thanks," Desperado said and hung up the phone.

When he pushed it back into his pocket he realized that the little girl was standing right before him, her hand still gripping the big blue balloon tightly. She was watching him strangely, not with a smile but some funny air of curiosity. Desperado watched her, seeming to be caught off guard, and grinned.

"How are you?" he asked. She turned her head, letting it hang somewhat sideways, and arched her eyebrows in question. Then, the reached her free hand out and touched his nose, then molded his cheeks and his chin with a bright smile on her face. She giggled and he laughed and then she stepped back and looked at him again with that inquisitive look, almost like she was studying him.

"Like grandpa," she said, her words unintelligible and odd, giggling like she had before. Then, she forced her other hand at him, the one in which she held the balloon, and waited there with her fist clenched around the string. She shook her hand at him and he took the string in his fist, cautiously, like she might attack. Then, she let go and backed up. "Smile," she said.

He did. "Thank you," he said, like a grandfather would to his granddaughter, and she smiled big again, showing her brilliant white teeth.

Then, without saying 'your welcome' or even 'bye,' she giggled and skipped off down the sidewalk, meeting up with a man and a woman who took her hands on either side and walked with her until Desperado could see them no more.

And he sat there for a very long time, his arm still held out awkwardly straight. And, bobbing up and down, side to side, as the wind made its strides through the lot, was the gift the little girl had given him – the big blue balloon.


	17. Russian Oldies

chapter SEVENTEEN: Russian Oldies

"Questions? What questions?" Brant was still pinned in the corner in something of shock. The creature was watching out the window still, the blue and gray slowly bearing faint streaks of green and amber.

"You were in Spetsnaz," the creature breathed. Brant looked at him, appalled. 

"You think I have secrets because I'm a former Spetsnaz? Russia has not been an enemy to the United States for years. What does my past have to do with any of this?"

The creature turned away from the window and looked down on Brant with that strong glowing red eye. "You're quite the find. Yasu Miatsuri, Peter Grant, Michel Haynes, Bruce Arden – all aliases. Enlisted in the Autrian military, spied for Great Britain, and fought in Spetsnaz. Then FBI desk-jockey, and now commander of FOX-HOUND, reinstated just before Solid Snake was released from the government's hands. Haynes, Arden, Miatsuri…you are like me. You have no name."

Brant still seemed unable to comprehend what the creature meant by all of this, but there was knowledge within him that he was hiding. He knew something that the creature wished, also, to know.

"Tell me, Mr. Brant, what are you doing as commander of FOX-HOUND?" Brant swallowed hard. He couldn't hide anything any longer.

Then, his Codec began to ring.

~*~

Mei Ling sat in a quiet room, a computer monitor starring at her in the darkness of a basement. It was dank and cold, but it was the only place she knew of that couldn't be hacked or monitored. It was far away from anything. She watched the monitor as she heard Brant's tired and worn voice come over the Codec. There was pain in her eyes, her brows bent oddly and sorrowfully.

"Mei Ling?" Brant managed, worriedly.

"Mr. Brant," she returned. Her voice was breaking, wavering. "They have you now, don't they?"

Brant waited to answer. "You know? How?"

Mei Ling seemed devastated. "We just need to ask you a few questions before we can carry on the operation. That's all…just a few questions." She waited for him to become angry, but it was worse when she heard the disbelief shaking in his response.

"You're with them? Who are they? Who are you?"

"I'm Mei Ling, Mr. Brant, you know that." She sounded hurt. "Answer their questions, Mr. Brant and then it will all be over."

"But –"

Mei Ling ended the transmission and starred into the computer screen as it glowed, lighting up a few feet of the room around her. 

~*~

Brant looked up into that chilling red flashlight of an eye and tried to laugh at how ridiculously vulnerable he'd been. Desperado, even Mei Ling had been working around and behind him. 'How funny,' he tried to tell himself. But, he found other words coming out of his mouth when he finally spoke.

"By nature, I'm attracted to action. I seek out whatever job I can, anything new, anything exciting. I lost my flare a bit somewhere along the line while I was serving in Russia as a Spetsnaz. No place in this world has been safe for the last twenty years – everything has its risks. So, every time I entered a new country, searching for a new job, I had to take on another identity. I've been moving along the grapevine for years and it was when I came back to the States about five years ago that I saw it right to settle down. I'm forty-eight and I think that's certainly old for field work.

"So, I entered the FBI. I was there for a long time before a few agents from the CIA confronted me and invited me to a meeting with the President. I went and he told me what I was in for. Take command of a secret black ops division titled FOX-HOUND and work with the most well-known stealth agent to associate with the US government."

"Solid Snake," the creature muttered.

"Right," Brant paused here for a while. There were other things he hesitated to reveal, but as the creature passed the little window cut out of the wall and the blade it carried caught the light he continued, though reluctantly still. "I was requested to stay silent about all of our operations, and to make sure that I followed all reports to the letter."

"Reports?"

"Every mission we were assigned, every one I was to command, was handed down through the ranks. Each and every one was reviewed by the President of the United States before I could get my hands on it. I originally believed that they were assessing the assignments to figure out just which department to hand it off to, but I eventually got it – they wanted to keep an eye on Snake. And, they wanted him to follow a path they'd charted themselves. He was being lead to someplace. Lead, intentionally, for one reason or another."

"Lead where?"

Brant paused, tasted his stinking breath, and looked up again at the creature. "To Trinket." The words dropped on the room like a bomb exploding all around. "This is his last stop. He doesn't leave as long as those letterheads get their way."

~*~

Desperado was still sitting at the bench when he got the call. "Yes?" he began, seemingly distracted as he held that big blue balloon in his grasp.

"It's Fox," the creature said. "Questioning went smoothly."

Suddenly sitting up at the bench, Desperado said more interestedly into the phone: "What did he say? Did you learn anything?"

"There's no problem with the aliases. He says he's a sucker for action and I believe him. But," he paused, but only for a moment, "what he had to say about FOX-HOUND was new. He says big names in the White House administration picked the missions he sent Snake on. It's been designed to move Snake on a direct path to Trinket."

"What for?"

"Mr. Brant isn't too sure, but it's obvious so far that these big names – they don't intend for him to return."

~*~

Russian oldies were a lot like German Death Metal had been back in the 90s. Most music at the turn of the century had been slower, more reliant on vocals, but in the early 2000s heavier metal bands surfaced and made their way onto the music charts. A number of years later and they were dying out, but they were still on the radio every now and then. That's what was playing in the little black Jetta as it went down the street, long and endless, cars nowhere to be seen.

Daves sat in the back seat still, eyes closed but so much happening beneath the lids. Images flashed before his eyes, sounds flushed through his ears, smells drifted past his nose – all as they went along the road that stretched off to nowhere, ending over the horizon somewhere. He hated the Russian oldies music, despised German Death Metal when it had been famous years ago. But, it was only a low hum, not cranked up loud like it was meant to be. Only the heaviest instruments played through and could be heard, and Sears sat in the front seat, drumming his gloved fingers on the console beside him and bobbing his head.

Daves looked into the mirror mounted above the dashboard and caught the glance of those cold steel eyes, the eyes of former President Sears – so penetrating and stunning. Sears smiled and looked back over the road, putting both hands on the wheel and speaking over his shoulder to Daves. "You've been sleeping?" he said. Daves hadn't been sleeping at all. His eyes had been closed for a little over two hours as they rolled along. Seeing his Trinket folder laying open on the front seat it reminded him of where they were heading. It wouldn't be much longer now, and Sears knew it too. Soon, they'd be there.

"Not too interested in conversation, eh?" Sears laughed a little to himself for no reason and neglected Daves once again. He took one hand off the steering wheel and turned up the volume on the Russian oldies – an act that made Daves sneer against his own will and better judgment. "Not a fan of my music?" Sears inquired. Daves didn't respond. Turning it down momentarily, he reached into his jacket pocket and brandished a small black cell phone. Opening it up, he typed in a few numbers and lifted it to his ear.

"Yes?" a voice responded, machine-like but still human, just oddly monotone.

"It's Sears," he said briefly. "I'll be there with the American broker in fifteen minutes. Be ready."

"Yes sir," the voice answered again, and the line was cut. Daves looked through eyes squinted. 'The American broker,' he thought to himself. Sears was in on the deal, then. Interesting. 

Daves smiled to himself, intrigued by this new twist, and closed his eyes, meditating to the Russian oldies. Sears still drummed on the console, hand gloved, head bobbing along to the music.


	18. Seven Bullets Seven Bodies

chapter EIGHTEEN: Seven Bullets. Seven Bodies

_"FOX-HOUND had been 'reassessed' (to quote the official statements) sometime around the second incident with the tanker, the Discovery. As soon as it was reinstated and officially accepted as a division of the __United States__ Special Forces once again, Solid Snake was back on the job. The timing did seem a little too convenient to be simply coincidental. As suspected, it was anything but a coincidence. FOX-HOUND had been reinstated specifically__ for Solid Snake. Whatever that meant, exactly, was anyone's guess, but as time went on it became clear that someone didn't want him returning from Trinket that day."_

~*~

The creature was getting something ready in the shaded corner of the room, packing a bag or something. Brant looked woozily over him, trying to figure out what he was doing. "So," he began, pausing for a short time to arrange his words carefully, "where do I go now?" The creature ignored him, continued packing the bag in the corner. Sunlight was beginning to wash through the sky, a very faint glow passing through the cut-out window and reflecting on the back wall of the room. Brant asked again: "What happens now?"

"My name is Fox," the creature said, matter-of-factly. He slung a small black duffel bag over his shoulder and turned to Brant, fixing one hand over his giant red eye and pressing on his temples with his thumb and middle finger. There was a release of air and a muffled 'click' and the front of the mask came free in his hand. Lowering it, he showed Brant his face, his blondish hair, his rugged features, and his sharp cheekbone. There was age in his face, not of years but of experience, and there was an odd glimmer of acceptance and sternness in his eyes. He extended a hand to help Brant onto his feet. "Call me Fox from now on. We'll be working together for the rest of the day."

Brant eyed him, confused. Working together? And then, the name struck him. "Fox...Gray Fox from Shadow Moses? I thought you died."

"I did," he said, and turned away, refitting his mask to his face and going to the heavy rusting door across the room. Brant watched him, still somewhat frozen in awe. Fox stopped at the door, his hand resting on the handle, and looked briefly over his shoulder, big red eye glowing brightly again. "Coming?"

~*~

The White House was right ahead of him, the sun shining over its steps and making its white walls appear yellow for a short time. Desperado was waiting just across the street, at an intersection, watching the cars roll by, watching the lights as they never seemed to change. There was a weight in his pocket, his cell phone, that he wished would ring, and a light tug in his hand as the big blue balloon bounced around in the breeze, the string inching out of his grip. Looking back to the lights and the cars, he saw the white man flash ahead of him, signaling him to cross.

Stepping into the street, he heard a flock of geese passing overhead, moving south of course. Their wings were all black, their bellies white, and little streaks of green behind their eyes. As he arched his neck to watch them, resting his hand on his brow to guard him from the sunlight, he felt the wind stop and the world slow down. Everything moved less quickly – the clouds, the geese, the trees, the people, the cars – until he heard those loud honking sounds around him. The lights changed, the cars began to move, cautiously and slowly, trying to warn Desperado with their horns, but when he realized they were trying to go by he simply walked to the other side of the street, no hurry in his step, and started up to the White House.

The geese were flying to his back, still squawking like mad. Honking. Just like the cars.

~*~

Fox pulled a set of keys from his duffel bag, brandishing them as they stepped up to Brant's truck. "You'll drive," he said, handing the keys over to Brant who still seemed confused. Taking the keys, though, without question, he opened the driver's door and scooted inside as Fox moved in on his right, taking a seat next to him and throwing his duffel bag down at his feet. Brant jammed the keys into the ignition and started the truck, the engine sputtering a little.

"Where to?" Brant asked, watching ahead as he backed out of the lot and stopped before the street.

"I need to talk with some of your friends from FOX-HOUND," Fox answered. "Head for the safe house." Brant looked sideways at him, questioning his intentions.

"Why the safe –" Brant started, but Fox lifted a cell phone to his ear and shushed him with his index finger. "Just drive," he said, and Brant turned left out of the parking lot, leaving an abandoned office building – the one he'd met outside of with Will Beck, Director of the NSA – behind. He looked over at Fox every few moments, making sure he wasn't doing anything peculiar, and continued driving.

"Mei Ling," Fox said, speaking over the phone line. "We're heading for the safe house."

"Fox," she started, "how is Mr. Brant?"

"He's fine," Fox answered. "Be ready for us. I'm calling Desperado now to give him the news." He ended the call like that, didn't even say good-bye. But, for him, time was important. They couldn't be wasting it with good-byes. He had to call Desperado.

~*~

"Hello?" Desperado answered anxiously as he entered the crumbling stairwell through the West Wing, phone to his ear.

"Brant and I are heading for the safe house." It was Fox.

"Good. I'm going to speak with Mr. Moore. Have you heard from the post in Moscow yet?"

"No. Nothing new from them. I doubt they'll have much to do before the President gets on the plane…when's he heading out?"

"Within the hour, I believe. Once I leave this meeting with Mr. Moore I'll go to speak with him." Desperado went down the stairwell, slid his card key through the register by the door at the foot of the stairs and passed into the next hallway. "I have to go, Fox. I'll call you soon."

"Good bye, Desperado." The call ended and Desperado pocketed his phone. There was hardly any business going on now. It had been much more congested earlier in the day, the hall that is, but it had cleared out since. At the end of it was a man carrying a number of weapons, guarding a door. Desperado went to him, smiled, was patted down for any guns – a Desert Eagle that the guard then took from him – and was then let into the room.

He found Vice President Moore sitting there in front of him, eyes shut, arms crossed, legs crossed, and one single piece of paper sitting on the table before him. He opened his eyes when Desperado stepped up to him, smiled a little, and slid the paper to his side of the table. "These are your targets," he said, plainly but eerily. "Everything you need to know about them – location, age, phone number – is right there on that sheet." Desperado lifted the paper to his eyes and read quickly over the names: there were seven. Seven names, seven targets. Targets…not people, not human beings. But targets. He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

"You will have four hours to get rid of them," he said. "Any longer than that and its possible news could break and you could be caught before all seven are disposed of. So long as you have them all gone in the next five hours you'll be covered, the scenes will be secured, and your association with me on this mission will be forgotten."

"Is this all?" Desperado asked, trying to avoid returning to this room, the cameras positioned all about. Mr. Moore looked up at him through narrowed eyes, a sort of sadness or disappointment in them.

"Use this gun," he said, reaching into his pocket with a cloth about his fingers, and setting a heavy black gun on the table. Desperado stepped forward and lifted it off the table, eyeing it carefully. "A Five Seven," Moore said aloud. "There are seven bullets in that clip. That's exactly the number you should need. Seven bullets. Seven bodies."

Desperado nodded, dropped the gun in his jacket pocket, and without saying anything more, passed out of the room and left Alex Moore, Vice President of the United States of America sitting in his stiff chair, eyes shut, arms crossed, legs crossed.

~*~

Snake noticed the air was becoming less stale, less cool. There was a low hum all around him, the vents shooting streams of warm air out at him from above. The walls were crumbling, cracking at his sides, and the floor, to his advantage, had grown soft from years of wear. His footsteps were nothing more than muffled pats, like raindrops on sidewalks.

He had maneuvered around a couple of guards patrolling the halls, but he was surprised that he hadn't met with many more than two. He suspected that if there was any real threat here there would be swarms of men on site, but it didn't seem that way. Didn't seem that way at all. But, eventually, he came to a new door. The last ones he'd gone through had led to storage closets or restrooms. He'd picked up ammunition for his SOCOM in one of the closets and had taped two magazines on the sides of the barrel like Desperado had done with his Desert Eagles all those times before.

Going cautiously to the door, now, he checked the knob. He rattled it very lightly, trying to determine whether or not it had been locked. Upon finding it unlocked, he flattened his back on the wall beside it and counted silently to himself, eyes squinted, hand gripping the SOCOM with confidence, but not with nervousness. He was anticipating whatever lay beyond the door. Wasn't sure what it was, but hoped he'd find something.

And he did.

When he swung around and pushed it open he found three men, all wearing black apparel and carrying machine guns, M4s, M16s, side arms, flash bangs, and grenades. His SOCOM had no silencer, but that wasn't something he could worry about. They were all three turning in his direction. Two of them were sitting in little plastic chairs, facing three narrow cells and one that was wider, and the third soldier was aiming playfully at the far wall. They were all caught off guard.

Without hesitating, Snake turned his aim to the man all ready standing. With two pulls of the trigger, two loud droning claps, and two sprays of blood, the soldier who was standing before began to stumble to the floor – a gunshot in his neck, and another in the back of his head. The other two men fumbled with their guns – one aiming at Snake and the other aiming through the bars of one of the cells. "I'll kill him!" the one said, referring to whoever was hiding in the jail cell. Snake didn't move. His finger rested lightly on the trigger.

He had two men, both armed with everything they would need to kill him. But, he didn't think about that. He'd always been taught – never hesitate – and he'd had years to understand why.

He pulled the trigger, and the man aiming at his own chest fell backward, a hole punched in his forehead with a bullet. The second man didn't fire at the inmate – no one ever _actually_ shot the hostage – but instead turned his gun on Snake. But, he was far too late. Smoke was pouring through the pinhole in his heart just the next second, and his gun was clattering to the floor before he could get the shot off.

Snake looked around the room, SOCOM still aimed ahead, and made sure there was no one left before closing the door behind him and holstering his gun. He glanced over the bodies as he moved to the cells, both disgusted and miserable. Closing his eyes in reverence, he went and stopped before the four cells. Looking over them, he found three men – all sitting, frightened, in their cells. 

One of them scooted forward on his cement slab, what was supposed to be a bed, and stuttered: "Is it…? Solid Snake?"

Only one of them was familiar, but he would find out, soon, that all three of them meant much more than he could ever have thought at the time.

~*~

Desperado stepped inside the secretary offices outside the Oval Office and said to the woman sitting at her desk: "When is the President leaving for Moscow?" She looked over her gold-rimmed glasses, capped her pen, and smiled.

"He'll be leaving here in a matter of minutes," she announced. She had met with Desperado before. They knew each other, not well, but knew each others' names and personalities to some extent. Desperado was always kind to her when he came through. And she was always kind to him. "Would you like to see him?" Desperado nodded.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble," he said, and she stood, stepped around her desk, and went to the door of the Oval Office. She stepped through, said something, and Desperado smiled to himself when he heard the President's muffled voice pass through the doorway. The woman peered over her shoulder, went back to her desk, and smiled to Desperado. "Go right on in."

Desperado thanked her and walked to the door. When he stepped into the Oval Office he shut the door behind him and stopped abruptly at the sight of the President, hunched over his desk and signing a few last-minute things. His briefcase was by his desk and his coat was laying over it. The windows the stretched up behind him let in a warm stream of sunlight, one that caught the dust hovering about the room, but also glowed around the President like a golden halo. He looked up from his things and laughed when he saw Desperado. He was happy to see him, as Desperado was happy to see _him_.

"Simon, my boy!" he said, setting down a pen and coming over to shake his hand. Desperado was obviously a few years the President's senior, but he didn't act it. "You did a great job this morning at the briefing," he said. "I'm glad you stopped by. I had meant to give something to you earlier, but you were out of the building before I could grab you. Here, just give me a moment," he mumbled as he went back to his desk and searched through the drawers. "Aha! Here it is," he exclaimed. "They restocked the offices with these babies," he said, brandishing a beautiful gold and blue pen. "I remembered you'd liked these ones. It's a shame they ever changed…but, well, here you are."

Desperado took the gift warmly, smiled wide as he pocketed it. The President and he had always been good friends. Great friends, actually. They didn't go out for beers or anything like that, but they played Poker every now and then, and even when their meetings were short they were worthwhile. "Thank you, Mr. President," Desperado said, and the President set his hand on Desperado's shoulder.

"I imagine you'll hold down the fort while I'm out," he said. Desperado hesitated, remembering what he would be doing all day long. Defying the President, one of his best friend. Then, he nodded: "Holding down the fort, sir." The secretary opened the door and smiled to them both.

"Sir, your ride is waiting."

"Well, then," the President said, turning and going back to his desk to review the papers he'd set on it one more time. He did it briefly before picking up his briefcase and draping his coat over his arm. "I guess I'll be going." He patted Desperado's shoulder again and smiled brightly. "Take care, today, Simon West."

"You too, Mr. President," Desperado said.

"Oh, and help yourself to some paper. It's in my bottom desk drawer. Why don't you try out that pen?"

"I'll do that, Mr. President," he said, muttered, as the President gave him a wave and passed through the doorway. The secretary watched Desperado for the time that he stayed in the office. And all the while, the sun pouring in through the windows, lighting up the room around him, and making a golden halo glow around his sides as he stood before the President's desk, a flock of geese passing in the sky ahead and a helicopter following in their direction to the airport where the President would board Air Force One, his heart sank – four words running through his mind as he handled the Five Seven in his one pocket, and his Desert Eagle in the other:

Seven bullets. Seven bodies.


	19. Still Flying

chapter NINETEEN: Still Flying

_"Big Boss was dead. At least, that was the official statement from the __U.S.__ government. Whether or not he really died, few people know. His death was described as 'self-induced.' Apparently, while being held in high-security solitary confinement, much like his ally/nemesis 'Revolver Ocelot' (deceased) after the __Manhattan__ showdown, he took his own life after unarming a guard on patrol. Witnesses of the scene said he took time to recite a line from the Bible as he rested there on his knees, gun to his head. And that is one of the greatest reasons people believe he's still alive today. When did Big Boss, mastermind of government conspiracies and terrorist plots, ever read the Bible?"_

~*~

Snake noticed the one who'd slid forward and asked his name. He hadn't ever met him, so far as he remembered, but he knew his name and had seen his picture. "Dr. David Kelmar," Snake grunted. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Kelmar had been abducted two years ago during the second Discovery incident. After the three men had disposed of Ocelot in his look stinking prison they'd fled to a small government-funded science complex on the outskirts of Connor, New Hampshire and taken Kelmar hostage. Since then, Snake hadn't heard anything about him. But, since then, Snake hadn't heard anything about the Discovery incident at all.

He was in the dark about a lot of it.

"I've been here for almost a week now," Kelmar answered. He was shaking, his clothes tattered and soiled, and he stank. Snake slid one of the plastic chairs nearer to the cell and sat down.

"Where have you been since the Discovery incident?" Snake asked. This was his chance to get some information. He'd never been properly debriefed on the mission. He'd woken up in a room that looked like a hospital, what he later learned was a jail cell with white walls and some IVs and medical things around him. No one told him much of anything.

"I got dropped off early on," he said, "before the others even got to the tanker." His voice was shaky, but he seemed familiar with this place, comfortable with it and with the dead bodies all around. The other two men were keeping their distance from Snake. They didn't want to turn out like the three men face down on the floor.

"Dropped off?"

Kelmar nodded. "And picked up by NSA officers. They took me in for questioning and held me in a prison for a year and a half before they shipped me off to this place."

"What were you questioned for?"

"A few years back I had been providing a patient of mine with a serum to suppress a rather strange condition. Apparently, he had suffered a somewhat unsuccessful arm replacement. He went by the name 'Shalashaska.' You know him, of course, as Revolver Ocelot. The Patriot."

"You worked for Ocelot?"

"Sure, but I had no idea he was the Patriot. How could I know? We'd met in person only once, and I'd been forced to send his medication through the mail. So, the big guys threw me in jail. Strangest part was – I don't think they even listened to my answers to all their questions. They transcribed a few things and tossed me in a cell. Then, just a few days ago, they threw open the door and dragged me out here."

"So, what are you doing here?" Snake asked, growing impatient with the long answers. Wanting just to get to the point.

"I don't know yet," Kelmar confessed. "It has to do with you, though. I'm sure of it. You and your brother."

Snake stopped, froze. Brothers? Solidus and Liquid…what did they have to do with all this? "What do you know about Liquid and Solidus? Which one is this about?"

"I heard Miss Abbey talking about the Cells and a project I'd been working on before the whole tanker thing," Kelmar said. Snake looked at him with shock in his eyes. "You know," Kelmar responded, "the Hell Cell and the Perfect Cell."

"You said Miss Abbey?" Snake began in disbelief. "You mean Worsdworth? Tintern Abbey?"

"That's the one," he said. "I think they used the Perfect Cell to –" Kelmar started, but at that very moment a PA system blinked on in the hallway. The voice running was muffled, not coming into the room, and Snake bolted to the door, opened, and listened to what he could: "_- report to the South Entrance. Repeat: Mr. Sears has arrived at the South Entrance. All specified soldiers, please report to the South Entrance."_

Snake couldn't believe it. Solidus…Sears…he was there. And so was Tintern, the traitor of the Romantics. Snake looked to Kelmar in urgency. "And you have no idea what you're here for?"

"None," Kelmar answered, and Snake cursed under his breath. He looked into the hall through the cracked door and then back at Kelmar.

"Who brought you here? Who's behind this?" he asked, hurriedly. "What is Solidus planning?"

"Haven't you heard?" another man chimed in, from the wide cell. "How could you not know?" Snake moved away from the door and nearly lost his temper with the man in the wide cell.

"What? What's he here for?"

"Metal Gear, of course!" The man exclaimed. "He's selling it to me."

"To you? Who _are_ you?"

"Phillip Harte! The Chairman of Present Future. We've put down over a billion dollars for it! Big Boss has guaranteed it. It's ours at the end of the day." Snake froze again. This was all wrong. Big Boss? He was gone, long gone, a bullet in his head, resting in some federal morgue under heavy guard 24/7…wasn't he?__

"Big Boss?! He was thrown in prison! He killed himself!" Snake growled. Harte shook his head, madly.

"Well, whatever the hell he did, he's here now!" Harte proclaimed. Sears and Big Boss – both of them, back from the dead? How in the hell had they done it? And, now, selling off Metal Gear? That didn't seem like them at all. "And in a matter of hours Present Future will have complete control of Metal Gear."

"You're paying them one billion plus dollars and they're holding you in a piss-stained jail cell? So much for 'the customer counts.'" And Snake was gone, out the door. Heading for the South Entrance.

~*~

"Stop here," Fox directed Brant to the curb about two blocks from the safe house. "We can walk." Brant pulled over to the curb, put the truck in park, and pulled the keys from the ignition. Fox had stripped himself of his mask, letting his hair fall freely over his ears, but had left the rest of his suit in tact. Pulling from his duffel bag as Brant slipped out of the truck was a long black trench coat. He slipped it over his suit, concealing it as best he could, and threw up the collar. Brant looked at him over the hood and smiled.

"So you were a Romantic, too," he said. He'd seen pictures from the Manhattan incident, and like anyone who had, he'd seen the picture of 'the Romantics' standing with their backs to the camera, the sun shining ahead of them, their bodies becoming silhouettes. Of all the pictures from the incident it had been the most famous and the flipped collar had been something everyone noticed. A trademark, one could say. "How'd you keep it from the public? How did you fool everyone into thinking you were dead?"

Fox looked up at him through shaded eyes as he stepped onto the sidewalk and passed up Brant. He drove his hands into his pockets and walked ahead, his trench coat curling in the warm breeze. The sun was low still. "Fox!" Brant called, coming to his side. "You didn't answer me."

"I didn't intend to," Fox said, plainly, a smirk on his face as he continued up the sidewalk, never looking left or right, never checking Brant's expressions. He just strolled up the sidewalk, not a care in the world as it seemed.

That was until he came to the safe house and walked through the front door – the unlocked front door.

Brant was at the foot of the front porch, looking over the two-story white-paneled ordinary looking house, a little rundown but not in shambles. It was nestled in the old neighborhoods and did a nice job fitting in. But, when he saw Fox turn the knob and push the door open – no key or anything – he was equally concerned. Fox didn't look back once, just slid the door slowly open and stepped cautiously inside. Brant grabbed his gun from its holster and hurried silently up the steps of the porch and into the house behind Fox.

Inside the shades were drawn, faint bars of orange and amber light slanting through the windows and piercing the gloomy blue glow of the place. There were desks and lamps and chairs, most covered with white sheets and cob webs. This didn't surprise either of them, though. The point of the safe house wasn't to draw attention. It was to detract it. And it didn't one hell of a good job, but as they moved through the front rooms they found no sign of anyone.

Mei Ling had set up her computer in the basement, Brant knew that, which explained why she hadn't shown, but the safe house wasn't considered quite. There were four other FOX-HOUND operatives working there that day, and two of them had setup base in an old master bedroom on the second floor. The two others – Fox stopped when he turned into the kitchen. On the kitchen counter, which wrapped around the wall under a row of hanging cupboards, was a laptop and a scanner, along with a whole mass of cords hooked up to another station setup on the circular dinner table nearby – all shattered and lying in fragments about the tiled floor.

Along with two bodies, bloodied and riddled with bullets. Fox drew his sword in an instant, its shimmering edge appearing out of nowhere, and turned on his heels as Brant knelt over the bodies. He was horrified at the sight of it. Turning a look back over his shoulder and then standing, he heard something shift in the next room. So did Fox, who started toward the archway to the next room.

But then: click.

Fox and Brant spun around, Brant aiming his gun and Fox holding his blade at alert. Standing at the entrance to the kitchen was a man, shiny black jacket falling just past his waist, light khakis swaying as he stepped just one foot closer, black hair appearing slightly blue in the strange haze, and eyes glinting wildly. His lips were pulled into a playful grin and he reminded Fox of the late Dante – a younger man, ambitious and confident.

To Brant he didn't _remind_ him of anyone. He knew the face. Knew it well. It was a man on his own team – an agent who'd been working in this very house with the rest of the team all morning. "Lexus," he said aloud. The man smiled, took one more step closer, now actually in the kitchen, no longer in the doorway, and looked sideways at Fox.

"You're here too?" he began. "How convenient. But, I fear I can't take you both now. But Brant, you should have been more aware of your team's background! Look where your sloth got you! Four dead government agents in one day – all under your command." He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth and waved his index finger through the air. And then, Brant got it. Then it hit him. 'Four' agents dead. Fox looked over at Brant and saw the horror on his face, Lexus seeing that Brant now understood.

"Well, boys," he said, smiling still, "I'm needed at a meeting in an hour or so. I will be seeing you again, of course?" he said, stepping backward out of the room. And then, with a twisted grin stretched across his face, he waved his hand and picked up a black briefcase resting beside him. "Tata, boys."

The moment he turned out of the kitchen Brant pulled the trigger, hoping the blind shot might catch him by some strange miracle. He didn't wait around to see, though. He ran into the next room and swung open the door to the basement. Bounding down the stairs, the world seeming to rock before his eyes, his heart racing in his chest, beating at his ribs and trying to break free, he jumped the last two steps and raced across the dark cement floor, the only light in the whole room coming from the glowing monitor of a computer.

And bathing in its light was a woman – hardly even that – sitting straight up in a chair. Brant fell on his knees beside her and ran his hands desperately through her hair, raising her chin and inspecting her face. Her eyes were frozen open, vacant but peaceful, and her lips were glittering red. But there, in the center of her forehead was a spot of blackness, of deep deep crimson.

His heart caved in, the world fell apart around him. Mei Ling…he had known her, had come to know her well over the past few months. Like everyone knew, she was the kindest, most peaceful spirit on this earth and seeing her there, so silent and so young…it was terrible. A dove caged…a light put out.

Fox stepped up behind him, his eyes sorrowful and pained. "Mei Ling is dead," Brant said, and Fox nodded. Touching his hand to her cheek and moving the hair out of her eyes, Brant smiled weakly. She was beautiful and had been unbelievably kind. To him. To everyone. But, she was gone. Taken.

And then, tears swelling in his eyes, he crumpled down beside her. Fox looked sadly across the cement floor, trying to divert his eyes from Brant and Mei Ling…poor Mei Ling. And then, he went to the stairs at the end of the dark room. Stopping briefly and looking miserably at the stairs he said aloud: "Five minutes." 

And then, he left them – Brant on the floor and Mei Ling sitting in that chair, in that darkness, pierced only by the glowing monitor of a computer. But as Brant looked over her face, she was still Mei Ling. She was gone, but she had not changed. She was not caged, nor a light put out. She still flew, still glowed. In others. That was how it always was when someone died. They lived on. And Mei Ling was living on, too__

Still flying.


	20. Be Careful of the Shadows

chapter TWENTY: Be Careful of the Shadows

_"The title 'Metal Gear' was adopted a good number of decades back when the nuclear bi-pedal walking battle tank Alpha Gear was developed as a means to protect the Patriot in office at the time. But, after the structural specs of Alpha Gear leaked into the hands of international agents, from nearly every country on the planet, slight variations of the original were built – later being called Metal Gears. The first popular model, codenamed REX, was introduced on __Shadow__Moses__Island__ around 2010 and was often described as 'angry metal.' The second, RAY, more resembled a dragon and took a sleeker design and more advanced means of control. The third, known as Arsenal Gear, was merely a weapons stockpile with an elaborate system – titled GW – constructed to control the flow of digital information in the aftermath of an explosion of 'useless data.' The Fourth was CELL, the combination of REX and RAY, showcased at Hell's Outpost in the __Western United States_. But the fifth, to be sold to the chairman of Present Future, Phil Harte, on the fourth day of Trinket's reactivation in ___Russia__ – was soon to top them all."_

~*~

[00:00:00]

SAT Search…

//Enter Search Loc Below

USER INPUT: Trinket, Russia

SAT Connected…Tracking…Locked

Awaiting Transmission… … … … …

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - || | ||| || - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Codec Transmission Detected

CODEC Transmission Recording… [00:32:20]

//Recording to LAPTOP

RECORD LOC: Moscow, Russia…

CALLER LOC: Scramble Device Present… … …Unknown

RECEIVER LOC: Trinket…

UNIDENT 2: Otacon?

     OTACON: Loud and clear. What is it?

UNIDENT 2: I got some clothes off a soldier. I disposed of him in a storage closet.

     OTACON: Good job. Where's Snake?

UNIDENT 2: He's heading for the south entrance. Solidus and someone they're calling 'the American broker' are here now.

     OTACON: Solidus? What's he doing there?

UNIDENT 2: I'm not entirely sure yet, but I'll bet it surprised the hell out of Snake to hear he showed up.

     OTACON: Wait until he finds out about Big Boss.

UNIDENT 2: I'm going to follow Snake. I'll contact you as soon as I know more.

     OTACON: Good luck.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - || | ||| || - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

CODEC Transmission Ended… [00:51:22]

Archiving to 

Reenter Transmission Access PASSCODE for replay

//Enter Title Below

USER INPUT: Philanthropy 2

//SAVED

~*~

Snake had to stop several times in the hallways, yielding to soldiers hurrying to greet George Sears, former president and corpse, at the South Entrance. He'd grabbed more SOCOM ammunition from the men he'd killed in the cell blocks, as well as a USP, silencer attached. He was feeling better about the mission now that he was well-equipped, but the weight of knowing Solidus Snake was not dead – not dead at all – was nothing he needed to deal with at the time. Then again, was it really a surprise that something like this had happened? Or how Metal Gear had suddenly shown up? Or, even, how Mei Ling still hadn't contacted him since the computer lab back in the Cold Bay with that ghost over his shoulder…?

Snake stopped his progression down the hall and swung into a side room as two men came round the corner and continued to the South Entrance, their pace quick, almost running. Snake watched shadows scurry through the light coming under the door as they passed, heard their gasping breaths and the words that they uttered to one another about how their children were doing in school and what not. He smiled a little to himself and waited for the halls to be silent once again before reemerging from the side room and continuing on his way.

It wasn't more than five minutes later that he was standing in the doorway to the Primary Control Room. Through the window in the door it looked like a still from the movie "Apollo 13," terminals setup in rows before a giant screen, though this screen was broken, black, nothing showing on it. He couldn't tell where soldiers were positioned inside, as his view through the tiny window in the door was very much limited, but as he stepped away and inspected the hall again he found a stairwell no more than twenty paces back, a sign, paint chipping, assuring him that it led to the second floor catwalks above the Primary Control Room.

Taking the stairs quickly but quietly, not sure where any more of the soldiers could be stationed, he found himself in a hallway the next moment, one that ended at the entrance to the Primary Control Room catwalks. There were no soldiers in sight and when he looked through the next door-windows to inspect the upper-level he found none moving about. Cracking the door less than an inch, he could hear voices float through the space – the words they formed were unintelligible and like gibberish to him, but they were verification that he was very near the South Entrance.

Opening the door completely now, he slipped through, crouching all the while, and slowly closed it behind him.

The catwalk was not a catwalk in the traditional sense. The floors were not like the walls of a cage, but rather tiled, and along their sides were finished railings that reached above Snake's head as he was crouched. They would still leave him exposed if someone were to shoot a glance upward, though, so he stayed quiet as he crawled along the outer-path, eventually moving onto the path that stretched through the center of the room, supported by columns reaching up from the ground level. 

Below, he could hear more than just the voices. Their words rang clear.

"Mr. Sears, it is an honor," one man remarked, his voice carrying a heavy German accent. "I am Jerald Hermein," his last name proof of his nationality. "I am in charge of security here. If there is ever anything that you need, something up my ally, just call on me."

There was a long pause, time Snake assumed was being used either shaking hands or for something insignificant. Stopping on the center path he curled his eyes over the side of the walk – and there was Sears, just as he remembered seeing him those years ago on the back of Arsenal Gear. There was a fake smile on his face, one Snake could instinctively recognize, and a feeling of superiority in his stance. He wasn't there to meet with the worker bees, the grunts. He was there for another reason. "Thank you," he said, not worrying to get names right, as he was next approached by a soldier in all-black apparel, a red piece of cloth strung around his uniform at his upper-arm.

"Lieutenant Becker," the soldier said, saluting Sears like an American man. Sears noted the red band on his arm and smiled, saluting him back. The Lieutenant dropped his salute after Sears had done so.

"A young one," Sears said, seeing how young the soldier was – no older than nineteen.

"I'll be at your side for the remainder of the operation, sir," the soldier said. Sears looked amused.

"Who recommended you to my detail?" he inquired, and just then a door swung open on ground level and a man, heralded by a crowd of black-clothed soldiers similar to Becker but lacking the red band on their arm, came to face Sears. Snake moved along the catwalk to get a better look of the two and when he had a pleasing view he stopped and sat in awe at the sight laid out before him.

"I did," the man who'd just arrived said, smiling. Sears was happy to see him, smiled at the sight of him. "Good evening, son."

Snake couldn't believe it, had to touch his chest once to make sure his heart was still beating. But when he found that it was, he was disturbed at how quickly.

~*~

Big Boss put his hand on the back of Sears' neck and pulled him closer, kissing to the left and right of his face and then drawing back again. "I see you have the American one," he said, noticing Daves who was standing beside Sears. "What about the Russian? Where is he?"

"This brat killed him," Sears retorted. "Khirshnoff will not be coming today." By this, Big Boss looked angry, but also excited.

"Mr. Daves, I believe? Were you…intimidated by Mr. Khirshnoff's offer?" Big Boss asked. This was the first time Daves raised his head, a smile stretched across it. He wasn't intimidated by all this. He'd seen worse, before, in his line of work.

"He wasn't going to give shit," Daves said, straight-faced now. "I thought I'd save him the time and just kill him where he was comfortable. You would have killed him eventually, am I correct?"

 "Yes," he said, after looking sideways once at Sears. "I suppose I would have." Big Boss very much liked the fire of Daves' personality. He was bold, daring – cool. "Well then, Mr. Daves, what, may I ask, is the offer that _you_ bring to the table?" Daves took a step closer to Big Boss, an act that called all the surrounding men to grab at their weapons before being halted. Then, when it was safe, Daves whispered something in Big Boss' ear and Snake saw a strong interest in the arch of his brows. Daves backed away, then, and took his place again beside Sears.

"Would three of you please direct Mr. Daves to his cell? I will be calling on him within the next hour, as soon as all is in place and we are ready to move onto the next objective." Big Boss turned away from Daves as he was led out of the Primary Control Room. Sears stepped up to his side, many of the soldiers having filtered out by now, only four remaining – three of which were on security detail for Big Boss, and one of which was on security detail for Sears (Becker).

"Has everything been moving along smoothly?" Sears asked. Big Boss was hesitant to reply.

"We've had a few…incidents. We've found four men gunned down in the western building. Three others in the genetics lab."

"So there's someone inside…any guesses who?"

"Your brother," Big Boss answered, grimly. He remembered painfully how Snake had shot the bullet through him only a few years ago atop a building in Manhattan. That was what had landed him in jail for over two years.

"Solid?" Sears breathed, hissed under his breath. "Perhaps he wishes to reenter into the family. What a surprise that would be."

"He's here to kill us," Sears said.

~*~

Daves continued down the hall, hands cuffed and head held high. Three soldiers accompanied him, each of them escorting him to the cell block on the main floor. Two of the men were talking with each other, conversing about this or that, but the third looked strangely subdued and shunned from conversation. Daves noticed this almost immediately.

"So I told her that there was no way she was copping out of college, and you know what she tells me?" one of the men continued to the other.

"What?" the other responded.

"Nothing! She gave me the finger and stormed outta the house! Can you believe it?" The other man made an unsurprised look and nodded. "Sure can," he said.

The halls were long and quiet. The lights were dim and flickered on and off time and time again. Daves listened closely to the hymn of the soldiers' equipment, rattling as they walked. Their grenades shook at their beltlines, their AK's and M4's, slung over their shoulders, swung at their sides and brushed their hips. Clickety-click. Swooshity-swoosh. Then the soft clap of their boots. And the instinctive flipping on and off of their safeties. Clickety-click. Swooshity-swoosh. Clapity-clap. Flippity-flip.

Then, they stopped before the door of the cell block, cracked only slightly and a stench of death curling under their noses. The front two men readied their guns, Daves almost laughing at the situation for one reason or another, and the third soldier standing a few feet back. Twisting the door knob and stepping through, the first two men were shocked at the sight – the bodies bleeding across the floor, their skulls and chests impaled with shining steel. Daves looked at it with surprise, not fear or horror but with surprise. And the third soldier.

He was very different.

There was shock in his eyes, yes, and when he saw what had happened he left "Shit!" escape between his teeth, but he was also quite quick to his holster, drawing a SOCOM and turning it on the two others' backs. Pft! Pft! Two silenced shots between the shoulder blades and they were both down, their weapons scattering, their newly-bled corpses joining the others on the floor. Daves turned to the third man who then removed his ski mask and aimed his SOCOM at his chest.

"Shit, Snake…did you do this?!" He exclaimed, looking about the room, not paying attention to Daves yet. Then, looking straight at him: "You're going to tell me right now. Whose side are you on?"

"Ha! I've been threatened with worse things than a bullet. I've seen your face. You'll kill me, I'm sure?" There was silence despite the rustling of bodies in the cells. Daves rolled his eyes. "Fine. First, your name."

His hair was blond, a tint of white streaking through it in some places. It was cut short up his neck, cropped close to his head, and his face was squared, or more so than in his earlier days. Breathing heavily and recharging his gun, he held his aim steady on Daves' heart.

"What's my name worth if I kill you here?"

"Hmm," Daves grinned playfully. "You've got me."

"Are you working with Sears?"

Daves did not hesitate to answer. "I am."

"I can't kill you now," the man admitted, spitefully. He wasn't a friend of Snake's, but he wasn't an enemy either. If he were to choose sides he would fight against Sears without a doubt. He was torn, though. He either killed another, Daves, or he left him alone and waited to figure out who he was, to figure out what was happening here. "You're coming with me. Are you fit to do a lot of running?" Daves nodded. "Can you handle a gun?" he added, cautiously. Daves eyed him strangely, then finally nodded.

"Don't trust me," Daves said. "I may be working with Sears, but he is no friend of mine, and neither are you. Everyone is gray to me."

"Good for you," the man said, "now come on."

~*~

Snake was still watching over Sears and Big Boss when the radio attached to Becker's hip sparked on and began to crackle loudly. The room froze, all attention turned to Becker.

_"I have Daves, now. And I have this base." Big Boss turned slowly to Becker, eyeing the radio on his hip. _"Whether you see it now or not, you'll not be leaving here with your lives. Daves is my hostage. You are all my hostages. Soon, you'll realize."_ Sears was furious. _"The time is running out for you. Metal Gear will fall as will the rest. Keep your eyes open wide. Don't let the shadows deceive you. For if they do, it will mean I have come. Come to kill."_ "What is this?!" Sears hissed. _"It's soon. This night will turn into day and your life will turn into death. And you'll know it was me, and those at my side, who stomped you out. You'll know – it was Raiden."_ "No," Sears breathed, unbelievingly. Snake stared ahead, just as surprised. And Big Boss just eyed that radio, piercing it with his wretched cold._

_"Be careful of the shadows."_

And the radio cut to static.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thought I'd give you something special for the '20th Anniversary of the King's Company.' I hope everyone enjoyed, and just to clear this up in case you didn't quite follow the story back – Raiden is the one who stole the troops' clothes and contacted Otacon in the beginning of this chapter and the chapter entitled 'Philanthropy1.' Again, hope you enjoyed, and if you are reading this now please review, even if it is not customary to you!! I REALLY appreciate the reviews, guys! I'll be updating again soon, and do realize – it's kicking into high gear now, so you'll be getting a lot more for each chapter as time goes along. I've got a lot left for you, so stay tuned!

- espresso


	21. Time to Make Art

chapter TWENTY-ONE: Time to Make Art

_"It took a long time for anyone to know exactly what was going on at Trinket that day. There was a lot of depth to the operation – always unexpected factors, unexpected guests, and other monkey wrenches that screwed it all up. But, it was around the time Fox and Brant finally got in touch with Snake again, after their long silence, that the pieces started coming together. It was also around the time the real__ bomb shells started dropping: Figuratively speaking, of course."_

~*~

Fox looked sideways at Brant, knowing he was still hurting from back at the safe house, and decided against what was right – to keep silent. "I knew her far better than you," he said, plainly. "Grieve all you want for now, but I hope you remember how to fire a gun by the time one's being fired at you." Brant ignored him, didn't want to, but did. He wanted to twist around, grab Fox by the neck, and snap his spinal cord cleanly in half. Who the hell was Fox to say how he should feel?

"Where are we going?" Brant said, forcing the thoughts from his mind. The sun was rising higher now, the weak city skyline waving in the warm breeze. He felt elsewhere, not in the truck any longer, felt like he was watching himself, watching the truck go down the abandoned streets on the way to some place he had no real desire to know.

"We're going to meet a friend," Fox said. They were going to see Norman Keys. Fox had known him through past operations. They'd also spoken a number of times while he was still in FOX-HOUND. Ever since, Keys had proved a loyal friend and partner. He couldn't handle a gun if it meant his life, but he was a genius when it came to electronics. "He lives on the other side of town."

"Can he help us with Lexus?" Brant asked.

"Yea," Fox said, willing to say anything to satisfy Brant, "he can help. I got this suit from him." Fox tapped his fingers on his chest, still fitted with the blue cyber-suit he'd worn in the FACtion incident. And it still worked as good as new.

"You can trust him?" Brant asked again.

"Better than you could trust this Lexus character," Fox said. He was obviously making a point. It didn't matter who they trusted at this point. They had to call on all the resources possible if they meant to settle the score – or survive the day. "Here," Fox said, as they pulled into the parking lot of a tall apartment building.

~*~

Snake was still resting there on the catwalks when the radio blinked off, following Raiden's statement. A number of soldiers had entered the room, taking orders from Big Boss to search the entire east wing of the building and to intensify security in the west wing. "Safeguard Dr. Kelmar, Mr. Harte, and Mr. Wahkasi, and move them into the west wing immediately. Set up everything the good doctor asked for over there. I want his job done before we proceed. And I want Daves, now!"

The answer was expressed with a salute from every soldier present. Big Boss saluted in return and went off for the door that led to the path bridging between the east and west wings. Sears stopped him as he went and Snake shifted to see them better. "Sir," Sears began, "maybe it would be wise to call on Miss Abbey. Where has she been all this time?"

~*~

The room was dark and giant. A sub-floor beneath Trinket, dug in the cliff the main level sat upon. There were no windows, no cracks for light to dance through. Nothing but a musty blackness and a number of invisible figures slumped against the walls, resting.

"You saw him?" one of them said. A woman.

"In the lab, yes," another answered. A man. "He was surprised…but another is with him. He stole Mr. Daves. The Boss is upset. And there is another in the west wing…he is killing more, but I cannot see him. He is like a ghost. More so than I."

"So Solid Snake is back." The woman again. "I wouldn't mind speaking with him."

A radio, that which rested in the center of the floor, sparked to life. _"Things aren't going well here,"_ Big Boss said over the radio. _"I had not intended to use you so soon, but it seems I have no choice. I'll meet you on the main floor – west wing."_

The radio went dead again and there was an exchange of blind glances between five. "They need us," the woman said, and there was a subtle rustling of clothes and equipment as the invisible figures made to stand. Then, slowly and without passing any words between each other, they stepped through the abyss in a straight path to where a yellow light glowed faintly above two heavy doors. Pressing a button beside the doors, they pulled apart and a gray light fell over the compartment within, highlighting the five's sharp features as they entered and turned to watch the doors close again before them.

~*~

They took the elevator to the eighth floor balcony, that which encircled the entire floor, and walked around it until reaching a door, the brass numbers pinned on it reading '812' and rapped their knuckles on the wood. There was a moment of silence, then movement in the eye hole from beyond the door, and the undoing of what seemed to be no less than six different locks. Then, tugging the door open, they saw the face of Keys – plain, but unshaven, hair disheveled, eyes stunning and almost black, lips twisted grimly yet 

"Where'd you get that from?" Brant asked as Fox passed a digital tape, the kind used to save computer settings in case of crashes, over to Keys. Fox ignored him while Keys looked it over and then waved the two inside his apartment. Sitting down at a desk covered with papers and burned or ruined CDs, Keys slid the tape into the drive and clicked on his monitor. Brant looked around the room, the otherwise green walls turning orange from water leaks and decay. It was a wonder he got along, living in that place. The shades had been torn down and replaced by wide slabs of wood, reinforced with ten-inch nails. The ceiling fan had once been wedged from its normal placement and refitted there after, what Brant assumed had been, cameras were installed to watch through its center. Posters hung on every wall, most likely covering audio and video recorders or secret vaults or anything.

"Can you work with it?" Fox asked Keys, who was sorting through folders and files to reach the data stored on the tape. When he eventually reached the tape's control directory and opened the first file – entitled 'Last_Save: 0225' – a black command screen blipped on. Two lines of text automatically sped across the screen:

'Last_Save: 0225 … … … Unlocking Secure Drive … … … First Encoded Layer Detected … … … Unlocks and Deciphered … … …

     F:// Tape Drive/ Last_Save: 0225/ First Layer UL … … … Security Lock Level 2 Detected…'

And then, there was a storm of seemingly random textual and numerical characters:

'H44 0K0D JH2TE NLRKA 20GHA1 JEU7AB UN UD726N…' The gibberish went on. Keys reclined in his chair, flipping a pen between his fingers as skillfully as a baton-handler, and touched it to his lip, thinking, concentrating. Fox stood over him, waiting for his response. 'Could he work with it?' The code Mei Ling used was deeply thought out and constructed. It was tough stuff. But Keys had dealt with something like it before – many times before. "It's no walk in the park," he said, pausing, "but I can work with it."

Then, Brant turned to Fox again and asked: "Where'd you get it from?" He'd been waiting for the answer the whole time they'd been standing there. But now, Fox turned his neck, in anticipation of answering.

"Mei Ling's computer at the safe house," he said. "She was working on something. Something important." And Brant faintly remembered the sight of a single strand of DNA twisting on the monitor as he lay by her side and mourned. The safe house…ravaged. And they were on the brink of something big. That's why Lexus had removed them. If Snake was going down today, like Brant thought, then he could have no help. His team had to be wiped out. 

And then, he realized something. "Snake still doesn't know."

~*~

Big Boss and Sears remained in the Primary Control Room even after they had sent their minions out to do their biddings. They sat at the terminals, Sears leaning forward on the counter with his elbows, and Big Boss reclined in his chair, tapping his fingertips to his lips. They'd made conversation about unimportant things for quite a while. Snake was growing bored with nothing happening, but he was patient. He wouldn't move until he had something to move onto. And at the time, there was nothing.

Then, something. A ringing in his ear.

"Yea?" he said, touching his finger to his ear and suddenly blooming with interest. "Mei Ling?"

"No." It was Brant. Snake disregarded the sadness in his tone and went on.

"Where've you been? A lot's happened since we spoke last."

"Same here," Brant answered. "Listen, Snake, there's been trouble – a change of plans."

Snake seemed apprehensive the moment he heard Brant talking that way. "You're not screwing me over –"

"I've met with some of your friends. The Ninja and whoever he's working with."

"Fox?"

"Yes, Snake." Fox had connected to the line. "We've taken operational control."

"'We'?" Snake didn't sound particularly content with his generalizations.

"Desperado and myself," he said. 'Desperado,' Snake thought quietly.

"What the hell for?" Snake growled.

"Mei Ling is dead," Brant blurted suddenly. Silence fell over them all, shattering the conversation entirely. "And so are the rest of the operators. The safe house was compromised and by one of our own."

"Mei Ling?" Snake said, whispered. There was disbelief in his tone, a shuddering fury. "Who?"

"A man name Lexus," Brant admitted. "He was hired into FOX-HOUND as soon as it was reinstated. He was given a rank before myself, even. Snake, there's a bigger problem, though…bigger than the safe house."

"Your mission is corrupt," Fox interjected. "Compromised. You have been running on a track designed by officials higher up in the government."

"Brant," Snake hissed, "you knew about this?" Silence. And guilt.

~*~

"Snake," Brant said, looking over his shoulder to see that Keys was still at work on the tape, hacking through the multi-layered code and deciphering what he could. "It wasn't like that. I knew there was something wrong…something strange. Every operation our team has been assigned has gone through a grueling series of certifications and assertions or declines before reaching our department. That much I knew, but it wasn't until recently that I had any reason to question the methods of the higher departments. Now the pieces are coming together."

"A little too late for that, though, isn't it?" Snake cursed. "Dammit, Brant."

"It's becoming clearer, Snake," said Fox. "Trinket is your final destination. The road ends there."

"Then, who are the government's players? Who here is looking for me?"

A pause, and then Fox: "We're not sure yet. You'll have to keep an eye out for now." Snake nodded grimly and Brant watched Fox leaning over Keys and pointing at the computer screen as different commands ran across.

"Listen, Snake," Brant started, "do you know anything about a DNA strand?" Snake felt the words hit him hard in the chest. What did they know? He'd forgotten almost entirely about the seemingly automated terminal in the genetics lab, forgotten, even, that Mei Ling had been looking into it for him. "It was up on Mei Ling's computer when we found her. A friend of Fox's is trying to break through the computer records and take a look at the information she had recorded on it."

"I saw what looked to be DNA pop up on one of the computers around here," Snake explained. "Apparently, some technical feature in my sneaking suit recorded the image and Mei Ling was looking for an explanation. Do you have anything on it?"

He looked, again, to Keys and Fox. Fox shook his head. "No, nothing so far," Brant answered. "Do you have any idea what it means?"

Snake tried back-tracing into his memory, trying to dig up the details from a vault of seemingly more important occurrences. A lot had happened all ready. And only a few hours had passed. "Snake strand," Snake said. "It had those two words somewhere on it." They flashed in his memory, the blue lights falling overhead, the ominous glow of the computer screen and the windows pulling up on command from an automated cursor…"It said 'Snake strand.'"

Brant didn't know what the hell that meant. He was lost in all this just as Snake was. Nothing seemed to be making sense. Who was on whose side? What was all this for? Why did they want Snake? Why did Lexus take out the safe house? 

Keys continued his typing, hunched over the keyboard and then reclined and then hunched, flipping his pen between his fingers, looking up code samples and deciphering methods in folders arranged haphazardly at his side. There was a run of green text, a few further commands, and a number of back-checks to assure he had put in the correct operation headers. He came to realize that a lot of the code was almost useless – just there to give a hacker a hard time. But, it wasn't long before Keys had deciphered the root of the code and then it was only moments more before he had the rest cleared and translated. And then: "We're in."

He said it quietly, not excitedly, knowing that the task of breaking the code was usually nothing to understanding what was inside. Especially in this case. None of the three in the room had any real idea of what the files on the computer were about. And the DNA strand specifically. What was it for? "So, we're looking for a DNA strand," he muttered, scanning a window of icons and applications.

"Snake," Brant said, moving nearer to the computer and feeling relief run through his veins, "we've got the records unlocked. Here we go," he said, waiting for Keys to rattle off some newfound data.

"Just maybe," he said, clicking twice on a nameless icon. Without any delay, a number of images blipped onto the screen – captures of a computer monitor, a strand of DNA glowing on its surface, arranged from dull-colored pixels and the words 'Snake strand' appearing as a caption. Then, working beside the photos on the desktop, he found another file and opened it. There was a run of words on a text document – something that appeared more like a report, but at its end was a rambling of thoughts Mei Ling had typed with her hands, alive and well, before she'd been killed. "'It looks to be a DNA strand, without a doubt. When searching the government database there were four matches, but they raise many questions. The codenames KING, Liquid, Solidus, and Solid appeared, but it doesn't seem right. Why would American DNA strands be stored in a Russian Cold War-multiple-purpose-preparations-facility? Especially if these computers haven't been accessed for so many years. This would imply a connection between the Snakes and the rumored Cold War Project.'" Keys stopped, looking up at Fox and then Brant. "That's all there is. Do anything for you?"

Brant turned away. "Snake, it looks like that strand belongs to you." There wasn't any answer. Either he'd gotten off the link or –

"No surprise there, eh? It did have my name printed right on it." He seemed disappointed, no doubt about it. The thought of his deepest, most untouchable, identity floating around Russian computer networks wasn't at all comforting. "How am I connected to Russia?"

"I guess it doesn't necessarily mean _you_ hold a connection, but I think it's safe to say that one of your counterparts most certainly does," Brant said. "Snake, you'll need to tap back into that computer station to find out more. Get to the terminal and pull up whatever you can."

"I don't know that I can do that. I'm a little tied down, here. The whole base is under tighter security now, and it sounds like they're bringing in the elite. Some mercenaries, I'm assuming. Wordsworth is with them."

Fox stood straight, turning away from Keys who eyed him strangely. "Tintern," he muttered into the Codec, "she's there?"

"Yea, and so are some other old friends," Snake said. "It looks like Big Boss and Solidus are back. It sounds like they got the Perfect treatment. Just like you, old buddy." Fox found some disgust in this mentioning of the Perfect Cell. That part of his life, and the incidents of Shadow Moses, were gone. He wished they would stay that way. "And Jack's here, carrying the alias Raiden again."

"Do you suspect he is another clone?" Fox asked.

"I don't think so, though he has gotten more poetic…and he seems to be less of a rookie. Pretty bold."

"Who ever thought that would happen?" Fox dared to laugh, but passed the joke with only a smile. "Do you know where he is?"

"Still in this wing," Snake answered. "If I had his Codec transmission I could call, but –"

"Get a Codec listing," Fox said to Key over his shoulder. Finally something he understood. Then, going back to his keyboard, he minimized the windows regarding the Snake DNA and pulled up something that resembled an internet phone book. Entering a UN security-bypass password, a long list of government phone and other communication device numbers swarmed the window. Narrowing it down to PH1-UNIT – the UN's official title for Philanthropy – there came a list of twelve. Running location checks on all of them, he found two positioned in Russia. One, he could tell, was within Trinket, two asterisks by the record to indicate a limitation in communication. The other had no asterisks, and from that Keys knew that the walls, though crumbled and old, were giving the first record a damaged call link. That was the clincher.

"102.42," he read the record aloud and Fox relayed it to Snake on Codec.

"Give it a try," Fox said. "And get back with me soon."

"Will do," Snake said, and the transmission was ended. Brant, Fox, and Keys – they all went back to the computer and began sifting through other files and other reports, looking for any information they could find regarding the operation. Mei Ling had known about the DNA – there had to be more she knew.

~*~

They moved quietly through the halls of Trinket, though swiftly. Daves was not slow, but he didn't have the agility of his leader, Raiden. He did, though, have a whole lot more style. That much, he was sure of. And he didn't run like a pansy, either.

The halls of Trinket's east wing, the area Snake had moved through all this time, were narrower than those of the west wing. Raiden had moved through the building for a number of hours before Snake had even arrived. He knew it well.

Then, startling him, there was a ringing in his ear. Turning to Daves, his gun at his side, he grabbed his follower by his jacket collar and dragged him quickly into a side room – a small dark closet. Touching his hand to his ear, he answered.

"Otacon?"

"It's Snake." He was very precise in his pronunciation.

"Liked my speech?" Raiden asked. "I knew you'd get to hear it. I saw you."

"Loved it, but I don't really care to discuss your way with words. You're still in the west wing, right?"

"Yea," Raiden answered, grabbing Daves' shoulder as he tried to lose himself in the closet and maybe elude him.

"There's a computer room somewhere around where you are," Snake said. "Some equipment is sitting in the next room."

"Yea, that's where I saved your life," Raiden said, laughing.

"Listen, kid, enough with the crap! Get over to the computer lab and log onto the terminal in the back right! Contact me as soon as you do."

"Fine, Snake, but watch your back." There was sharpness, now, to Raiden's tone. "Otacon wanted me to keep you away from the east wing, but I'm not stopping you now." Snake looked perplexed. "Raiden out." And Snake's confusion disappeared.

"Come on, Daves," he said. "We've got places to be. Things to do." And Daves and Raiden slipped out of the storage closet and hurried down the hallway in the direction of the computer lab – a.k.a. genetics lab. They were there in only seconds, the hallway once lined with lasers now clear for the two of them to pass. And pass they did, straight through the double glass doors and into the cold lab, computers sitting atop the tables and blood stains streaking the floor, the bodies moved since Snake and Raiden had devastated the area.

But, when Raiden weaved through the cubicles, it was apparent that Snake had forgotten to mention one very important thing.

"Peek-a-boo," came a slithering voice, and Raiden and Daves both turned to see a figure, knobby and thin and repulsive, suspending in midair, hands stretched at its side, face grotesquely pale and sharply defined, one eye dug from its core but the other stinging with a foggy gray. Raiden pulled his gun at height with the floating entity, the 'ghost' as Snake had called it, and aimed.

~*~

The others had stepped out of the elevator on the main level, but when Tintern turned back she saw him sitting in the corner, eye shut tight, knees in the air, arms drooping sickly over them. "The one with the boss' new captive," he hissed. "I can see him now." Tintern walked back to him and sat beside him, waiting as he worked.

~*~

"What are you!?" Raiden cried, forcing his SOCOM at the floating creature, the shadow of another thing that rested in an elevator shaft somewhere on the other side of the facility.

"You should not be meddling with what belongs to the boss," the thing spoke. "Get out," its arm extended, index finger, spindly and long, pointing to the doors. "Get out…now!" And it lunged forward. Raiden stepped back once and stressed the trigger of his SOCOM – then again, twice more, when the thing didn't stop coming. But by the time it had passed straight through him and disappeared, a figment, a ghost, and Raiden had expended his entire magazine, the lights shut out, along with any hum of energy, and he heard only the last crackle of sparks ahead – where, he remembered only too late, the controls for just about every aspect of the east wing's operation was positioned. And he'd shredded it with metal. 

~*~

'Damn, kid!' Snake thought, the lights shut off completely, and a sudden shuffle of boots going across the floor below. Sears and Big Boss remained in their chairs, Snake thought, and he instantly tried to picture where the guards had been positioned before the lights had shut off. "Team three, what's your situation?" Someone hollered across a radio channel. There was a little taste of chaos, the whole room coming to life with crackling voices over disconnected channels and yelling. "Sirs?" Someone said, and both Big Boss and Sears answered with an irritated "Right here."

Just then, Snake had the picture. There had been two men at each door – there were three – and the man, Becker, Sears' personal bodyguard of sorts, had been leaning against the column supporting the end of the middle walkway of the catwalk on which Snake lay. That made seven trained soldiers and two officers, reclined and irritated. 'But, what the hell,' Snake thought, and he hoisted himself onto his feet, grabbing from his holsters both a SOCOM and a silenced USP. 'Wish me luck, Otacon,' he thought briefly, and then, seeing only a few feet ahead, he sprinted forward and felt for the railing. Once he had a grip, he swung over the edge and fell whimsically through the air, the radio voices coming closer and closer.

And with a quiet shudder, he landed on the main floor, one knee tucked into his chest. Rising swiftly, he found Becker just inches away. Pulling him into a tight headlock, he reached at his waistline and grasped a flashlight just as the other soldiers clicked on their own in response to the sound of struggle. And then, clicking on his flashlight and snapping Becker's neck with a clean slice of bone, he smiled to himself.

"Time to make art."


	22. Dead

Chapter TWENTY-TWO: Dead

_"One of Snake's greatest flaws was his inability to detach from his emotions on the battle field. After a time, he came to realize that it was also among his greatest strengths. He found that nothing so terrible as the things he went through could be weathered without love or without friendship. And that's what made him who he was. It was most certainly a shame that in just the next two hours he would lose more than he had ever imagined. He would die."_

~*~

Snake began unloading his magazines immediately, squeezing the trigger each time his flashlight illuminated the black suits of the enemy soldiers. He had to keep moving all the while, spinning and dashing this way and that, doing cartwheels around the room to avoid the oncoming fire. The light of his flashlight gave away his position exactly. But, little more than a minute into the assault he was pretty sure he'd killed one and injured at least two more. He was sure neither of those hit were Big Boss or Sears, though, as he could hear them shouting and hollering the entire time that the battle raged.

"All units report to Primary Control!" one soldier wailed over the radio. "One known target has – " That very moment Snake pulled the trigger again, a bullet striking another body, and the soldier's voice failing as he began to choke and tumble onto his knees before disappearing from the path of Snake's flashlight.

"_What's happening there?" There came another voice over the radios. "_Have KING and Sears all ready been moved to the second wing?"__

"Negative!" one soldier replied as Snake clicked off his flashlight and dodged a blindly aimed bullet, backing against a wall and then crouching. "We have one enemy target at Primary Control! Repeat – one enemy target at Primary Control!" The soldier switched off the radio and went on: "Whose hit? Whose down? Where the _fuck is this guy?"_

"Richards here," one soldier struggled to say. "I've got a bullet in the leg – can't stand." But, besides that, there was only silence. Even Big Boss and Sears ceased to answer. Customarily, the soldiers would use their flashlights but that prick of light would alert Snake to their presence. And for the time being, the risk was too high, so long as only two soldiers were there in protection of Big Boss and Sears, one of which couldn't walk.

"Shut up, you fools!" King answered, bewildered at the fact that his soldiers were acting so poorly in the situation. "Keep moving and keep quiet!" he hissed.

"KING, Sears – are you – " There was a silenced gunshot and the soldier cut-off mid-sentence, his body slumping to the floor. The other soldier left alive, Richards, flicked on his flashlight immediately in the direction of his comrade's voice and saw a heap silhouetted on the floor – dead – and a figure standing tall before him, gun now aimed at Richards.

There were two shots to follow – the first, silenced, that bit through Richards' jaw, shattering it to specks of bone and blood, and the second, not silenced, that seemed to slow down time, whizzing toward Snake and digging deep into his left thigh. 

Richards' flashlight rolled to the floor, its beam going back and forth before it stopped still, and Snake disappeared, blood running down the back of his leg, both Big Boss and Sears firing at him through the dark.

"_Primary Control, we're moving to your position. What's the situation?" Silence. "__Primary Control, come in!"_

Big Boss snagged a radio that sat on one of the desks in the room and clicked down on the button before kneeling behind a computer terminal for cover. "This is Big Boss," he said, hearing Sears' magazine turn up empty, "send back-up units to Primary Control this instant." He listened for a time and heard no returning fire from Snake. And, just then, the doors to the second wing swung open, four figures stepping into the room, flashlights shining bright, and one seeming to glide behind them all.

They moved quickly over to where Big Boss knelt, the figure in lead setting down a flashlight on one of the desks and smiling briefly. "You called," she said.

Tintern.

She turned swiftly away and addressed the four behind her without wasting any time at all – the last figure still standing apart from the rest. "The whole wing's power is out. We have intelligence on two intruders. One is Solid Snake and the other calls himself Raiden. The second has one of our investors with him. The intruders are fair game, but you mustn't harm the other.

"Turkish, set up a link with Carson immediately, and install a new bug," Tintern continued as one of the other four figures nodded and disappeared in the direction Snake had escaped, that which would lead deeper into the wing and take him, eventually, to the computer lab where he could further investigate the damage to the wing's power network. "Crais, you go with him and try to switch the emergency power on. We need cameras up and lights on in ten." Another of the remaining three departed, following after Turkish. "Red, escort Sears and KING to the second wing and take them to see Kelmar." Tintern turned to the two – father and son – and stared at them as blankly as ever. "You will find he has all ready been given the necessary tools for the procedure." KING smiled gratefully and, along with Sears, went to the second wing, a woman called Red leading the way.

When they had left the room, the door swinging shut behind them, Tintern spun around on the heel of her boot and looked pityingly at the man who remained floating there, just above the floor, eyes shut tight. "You are looking for them again, now?" she asked and the man nodded absently, his mind obviously elsewhere. Taking a seat at one of the nearby desks, she sat back in the chair and smiled at the blank ceiling – far too high to be seen in the crude light (the only light being a single flashlight sitting up on a desktop).

"You know, May," Tintern began, pausing for a moment just to admire the silence and the darkness of he room around her. In all the vastness only a single table, her own front, and the curls of her comrade's clothes were lit, seemingly floating there in the silence, no body to support them. "I often wonder if you really hear me during these times."

The man did not stir.

"Or if you hear me when we speak," she hesitated, but seeing he was not answering she went on. "You see past my words."

"Past life and death," he muttered just loudly enough for her to hear. She shifted slowly, sitting up in her chair, and leaned forward, trying to be closer.

"Do you know that I am here now?" she asked, and she saw the tip of his nose move in and out of the light as he nodded in response. "But, you are also watching the others?" He nodded again and she went silent for a time, after which she stood. Cautiously, she passed around the desk and stepped up before him, raising on her toes to kiss his lips.

Reaching a hand out of no where, he grasped her wrist and she bowed her head slightly before withdrawing uncomfortably and turning her back on him. "I'm sorry," she admitted as she walked toward the door that both Crais and Turkish had entered.

"The boss is sorry," May said, stopping Tintern in her tracks. "He is not proud of what happened…or of the losses you suffered."

All remained silent.

"Contact me when you find Snake," she said briefly, and she passed through the door.

~*~

"When was Snake ever smuggled into Russia long enough to get his DNA mapped in a war-prep facility?" Brant whispered to Fox in the hall, Norman Keys on the phone in the next room. "It doesn't make sense."

"No," Fox breathed, peering over Brant's shoulder to see if Keys was off the phone yet. He wasn't. He'd moved over to a smaller desk and had begun punching keys on a laptop, the phone receiver pinched between his ear and his shoulder. "He'll be all right on his own. We can't help him right now. We should think harder on Lexus for the time."

Mention of that foul murderer's name lit a new interest in Brant's glassy eyes, his face looking more worn that it ever had, his whole body seeming weak in his growing age. But, with all his pain and soreness, he seemed more than ready to act against Lexus, that bastard.

"Think of motives - Where did he come from? You said he was assigned to FOX-HOUND before you. Who assigned you?"

Brant tried to think back, but no names came to mind. "I don't recall, but I know that he had some sort of background with the NSA. It was nothing long-term so far as I can remember, but he was looking to strike a more substantial seat with them before he was sent to our division. He warmed up to the director quite a bit, if I remember our conversations."

"Passed up by the NSA?" Fox thought on it for a moment. "You'd spoken to Desperado about Beck once, I remember him telling me you'd mentioned him. Did you have any closer relations with the agency before today?"

"I'd looked into working there a couple years back, but I took the FBI instead," Brant answered. "I can't see what that has to do with anything, though. The NSA never took him in."

"But, he went to them just before he came to FOX-HOUND…and now you are at odds with the director of the agency. You two met this morning and he denied you more information on Trinket. Desperado knows where it may be hidden, the rest of the information…so Beck is hiding it from you." He waited a moment before continuing, quite good-humoredly. "It sounds like the NSA doesn't really like you. And when the government doesn't like you – you don't get your phone call."

"You get a bullet in the head," Brant finished, recalling the barbaric image of Mei Ling with a prick of blood on her forehead.

"And it's not the director who shows up," Fox paused, "it's his lapdog."

"Lexus."

~*~

Snake stumbled through the halls, footsteps clapping behind, heart racing within, pain throbbing in his leg. Crais and Turkish were going calmly down the hall, flashlights in their hands. They shined them ahead, but Snake was around a corner, still staggering forward, trying to escape them, trying to avoid capture or confrontation. He couldn't fight like this. He could hardly walk. And, checking his guns, he was out of ammunition. He had no weapons against them, and from what he could tell, they were the cream of the crop. They were the elite, comrades of Tintern's and close devotees of KING.

He went around another corner just as the flashlights turned down the hall, catching the back of his leg and alerting Crais and Turkish to his position. They stopped for just one moment to examine their weapons before quickening their pace, nearing a run. Snake heard them coming, heard their footsteps come louder and faster, and he tried to run himself, but his leg gave way and he slipped forward, his face falling helplessly against the floor, head smacking against the cold concrete and the lights turning out, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

When Crais and Turkish turned into the hall they found him sprawled there, blood still flowing from the wound in his thigh, and his guns scattered across the floor. A small trickle of crimson snaked from his hairline, a result of his fall. Crais pulled his radio from his waist and clicked it on. "We have the Snake," he said, his voice ominous and chilling. "Should we kill him?"

There was a pause, no answer on the radio, and then footsteps began to echo from behind. They readied their flashlights, pointing them back down the hall, but stopped when Tintern came into view, caught in the spotlight, her walk steady and slow. Turkish smiled at her and said, his voice harsh and raspy, very unlike Crais' and almost maniacal: "Shall we kill him, Miss Abbey?"

She walked on, stopping before them and kneeling down beside Snake. Slowly, she ran her hands through his short hair, traced his cheekbone down his face, and went so far as to drop and kiss his lips. Licking her own as she stood again, she tasted the sweat and the anguish. Smiling to Turkish and waiting a moment, she shook her head. "Yes, go ahead with it," she said, and the eerily pale and translucent figure of May appeared out of nowhere in front of her.

"Tintern," he began, his ghostly jaw moving, his grayed skin taut about his face, "what do you intend to accomplish killing him?" Snake was stirring at her feet, slowly returning to consciousness.

"We will bring him back…just like the others," she said coolly, "but for now – he has dealt death to so many. He should know how it feels." Snake was moving his hands across the floor, trying to grip what was happening, trying to understand the voices above.

"Tintern, this is foolish," May said again. "The boss will not be pleased to hear what you have done." Snake was blinking his eyes, his sight slowly returning, his neck turning so that he could see the heels of Tintern's boots beside his face. Just if he could grab hold, use her to stand, to shield him from the gunfire the other two would, no doubt, hail him with.

Crais and Turkish noted his movement and looked apprehensively to Tintern. Snake's heart was racing his chest. He was without weapons. What could he do? "Tintern, I refuse to allow it," May repeated, but at that moment Tintern pulled forth her own gun, brandishing it to the others, and aimed it down to the back of Snake's head.

"Tintern!" May roared and his ghostly image sprang forward, Snake's heart skipping a beat, and the two others watching anxiously. Everything froze: May in mid-air, Tintern's finger on the trigger, Snake's eyes helplessly near-shut...and then, Trinket forced her finger upon the trigger and a loud shot rang out, a bullet sprang to life, and Snake felt all his life fade in an instant, all his memories escape through his fingers.

And he crumpled into a heap on the floor. Dead.


	23. The Race Was On

Chapter TWENTY-THREE: The Race Was On

_"With Snake out of commission, everything seemed to change. In the next hour Fox and Brant would leave Norman Keys' apartment and go to meet with Will Beck a second time. Desperado would prepare to take a life and grab hold of far more than he'd bargained. The President would make an urgent phone call to a man he'd soon find hard to trust. Some would change sides, truths would join lies. And all the while, only one of Snake's company had any idea he was dead, had seen the murder right before his eyes – the only one who could do anything to help him now. _

_"Raiden."___

~*~

He had seen it take place, had watched Tintern aim her gun to Snake's forehead, heard the ghostly image of May yell out in protest. He was standing around the next corner, eyes prying through the dark hall, feeling unable to move out of the darkness, feeling glued to where he stood. Daves had been beside him, had even suggested acting in opposition, but they both knew that they would only be murdered if they showed their faces. They couldn't take the chance.

And so, they didn't. Raiden and Daves watched Snake die before them, his consciousness returning just moments before he took the bullet. As soon as it happened Raiden spun back behind the wall and shut his eyes tight. Daves looked at him, not sadly, but with a trace of pity in his eyes. They could hear the enemies conversing around the bend, heard Tintern mentioning bringing Snake back, heard May cursing and disappearing again into the air, heard the other two – Crais and Turkish – talking loudly to each other before lifting Snake and walking out of there in a hurry.

Tintern waited behind for a moment, looked in the direction of Raiden and Daves, thinking – or maybe even knowing – they were there around the corner, and then turned on her heel and walked off.

Raiden wanted to do something, wanted to turn around the corner and hail her with bullets, but he knew she had done them a favor. She had known they were there, but had not struck. Why?

Shaking this thought from his mind, he put his finger to his ear and waited for a voice to fill his head. "It happened," he said, faltering. "Snake is dead. Give word to the President." And then the communication ended. Daves just looked at him, confused.

"Give word to the President?" he said, almost accusingly.

~*~

"That was him," a man said after setting a phone to its cradle. He wore a suit and tie and his hair was receding along his forehead. Lines were etched across his face, but he was no older than forty. He looked across a small cabin area, chairs and windows along the walls, clouds and blue skies spinning by, to another man who was seated there. "The Snake is dead, but it was not done as it was meant to be done. Spectral did not deal the blow."

There was a heavy silence and then the other man spoke. The President. "He will be returned, though?" The first man nodded.

"In accordance with the old man's plan, yes," he confirmed. "But, I think it would be wise to contact the Russian President. It seems things are getting out of hand, and it will look wrong if you don't address the issue…even if it means jeopardizing our mission."

The President considered this and then stood. He walked a short distance to another room, leaving the first man in the cabin behind. There was a desk sitting against the far wall, a television installed in the nearest, and a single phone sitting on a small end table. A single red phone. Going over to it, the President sat down and thought quietly to himself. Then, lifting the receiver, the call was initiated automatically.

~*~

The office door swung open and Desperado was standing before a man wearing a blue suit, tie loosened about his neck, and a look of fear painted across his face. Desperado was carrying the Five Seven in his hand – three bullets had all ready been used, three dead bodies all ready lying bloodied a few miles apart in three small broom closets. The Vice President would have people out there to clean it up right away. That was the plan.

"What is this?" the man said, dropping his briefcase to his feet. His eyes were huge, legs shaking, arms slightly held in the air, as if ready to be robbed. "What's going on?" he cried as Desperado shut the door behind him.

And then he did something a little odd, something he hadn't done those three times before. After putting the man down on his knees and checking his gun to make sure everything was a-okay, he looked into the man's frightened eyes and asked him. "You've been working closely with the President lately?" There was a strange and unusual savageness in Desperado's voice as he spoke.

"Of course I have!" he said, hastily. "I worked on the START 3 modifications with him for a number of months. I was meeting with him nearly every day. What? Why do you have that gun?"

Desperado looked at him, cocked his head to the left, and examined the man as he knelt there. Something strange was resting on the tip of his tongue, Desperado could tell. And just as he readied his gun, the man muttered quickly: "You're with the Vice, aren't you?"

Desperado stopped.

~*~

"Mr. President, I will not allow this treaty to be hindered further. If we mean to value its message, you must act now. No doubt, you all ready know about the situation at Trinket?" The President was saying this with confidence as he waited in the small room, red receiver to his lips and ear. The Russian president was quiet.

"Of course I do," he said, almost as if he'd been offended. "It is a delicate matter, but it will be ending soon, I assure you."

"It must end _now_," the President said firmly. "We have done what we can to handle it, to end it, but it doesn't look as if our efforts will show successful."

"You have been operating within the borders of my country?! Do not attempt to do my job, Mr. President! Trinket will be handled soon enough, and whatever men you have there now…remove them. It will be taken care of, don't you worry."

"I don't intend to remove any of my men," the President answered. "Listen to me – send a team in. If you don't act now…the signing won't happen." He seemed almost nervous having said this, but with renewed confidence, he continued. "I refuse to sign anything unless you acknowledge this threat. You are acting unwisely."

The Russian President waited for a moment, as if speaking silently with someone else, and then answered swiftly. "It is being taken care of now."

~*~

"They went to the second wing, we have to get there now," Raiden said as they ran down the hall to the 'Primary' room. Daves stopped him, wrangling his arm and wrenching him backwards. There was a loud squeak as his boots slid along the cement floor. Raiden looked angrily at Daves.

"What were you consorting with the President for?" he asked, a sharpness in his voice. Like an interrogator. Raiden watched him closely, then shook him off and turned his back. "That doesn't matter," he said. "Right now, all we need to do is find Snake. We have to make sure he comes back." Comes back?

"No," Daves said, raising his gun to Raiden's forehead and pressing it against his skin, "you need to tell me right now what you're doing, dealing with the President."

Raiden didn't move, didn't breathe. He just stared, shocked, at Daves. And just then, something clicked. "You're with the Vice, aren't you?"

~*~

"What do you mean, 'with the Vice'?" Desperado questioned fiercely. But now, there was a n uneasiness in his voice. He wasn't quite sure about anything, it seemed.

"Go ahead, kill me," the man said, finally. "You're all gonna get fucked eventually. Just you watch. And once they nab you, you'll get the worst treatment they've got. You know how they deal with traitors."

Desperado couldn't understand. This man was the traitor – what was he trying to pull? "You've been dealing with the President to sabotage the signing!" He waited for the man to answer, but he just looked back at him in mock horror.

"You're all screwy! What are you babbling about?! Don't try placing blame on me! You're the one's who're trying to smudge out the President!"

"_What?_"

~*~

"He's had it coming to him!" Daves sneered. "Especially when he started dabbling with the Patriot! He was digging his own damn grave!" Raiden was shaking his head the whole time, disgusted with this 'Daves' fellow. "The Vice has the connections. He's best friends with the directors of every government agency we've got! Your 'great President' doesn't pay any attention to them. He gained office and gave up on being kind, gave up on sustaining a suitable 'business partnership'. He uses the resources but gives nothing in return. He doesn't gratify the people who work their asses off for him. He gives them nothing." Daves was absolutely enraged. "So tell me – what're you doing for him _here?"_

Raiden stared him in the face and said boldly: "Nothing." Daves laughed raucously in his face and grabbed him viciously by the arm, taking Raiden's gun and fixing it under his belt. 

"Well, then, let's go pay the KING a visit," Daves said slyly, tugging Raiden forward. "I've got a Metal Gear to buy."

~*~

"The Vice President has been plotting against the President since the FACtion incident. He was in league with the Patriot, had worked a number of deals with him and had followed each and every one of his orders. When the President started to rebel, he turned his back on him. From that point on, he spent each and every day winning over the big names in the political playing field. He made friends with the people that the President was too busy for and started pulling favors." 

The air was still.

"I'm one of the prime representatives for the President, one of the only men who stands truly loyal by his side. No wonder the Vice wanted me taken out. I've been helping the President since his election campaign. I'd do anything for him." And then Desperado got an idea. Something struck him. _Anything, he thought. Interesting._

Then, breaking, he put away his Five Seven. The other man looked at him crazily. "Come on," he said, lifting the man onto his feet, "I might need your help. You're…Dennis Cray, right?" Desperado asked, checking the list of names he'd been given, a heavy weight falling in his stomach as he looked at the three names he'd all ready crossed out – the three men he'd all ready killed. 

"Yea," the man answered warily, wondering why he hadn't been shot yet. Desperado, though, was having trouble understanding it all. He'd never liked the Vice, but he'd never seriously thought him to be plotting anything. He'd made him kill three men – and it could have been seven if he hadn't heard what Cray had to say. Damn it. He would pay for this.

"Do you know these names?" Desperado let Cray look over the names. He nodded. "Of course," he said, "they're the closest friends of the President. We're…kind of a tight-nit group."

"Good," Desperado said, his face finally taking on a very light smile, warmth returning to his heart. "We'll need their help. Now, come on. There's a lot to be done, and very little time to do it." And with that, the two set out of the office and hurried down the hall to the elevator, Dennis lagging behind, mind racing just like Desperado's. 

~*~

Brant and Fox turned into the parking lot for the second time, the rotting office building glooming ahead, and a big black suburban sitting near the awning Brant had stood under earlier that morning to escape the rain. Seeing it now, behind the dashboard of his truck again, was like entering a whole new world. So much had happened all ready. It was now day, the sun shining though palely amongst a bed of clouds, Fox was in his company, Mei Ling and the rest of his people had been killed, he had met the man called Norman Keys, had learned to hate the man called Lexus, and, though he had yet to find out, Snake was lying in a room furnished and arranged for an operation with a bullet in his forehead.

The truck sputtered and died as Fox pulled the keys from the ignition. Brant looked up, though wearily, and peered over the dashboard. Opening his door and stepping cautiously out, he and Fox walked under the awning where Will Beck, director of the NSA, sat on a small rusting bench. He had a smile on his face, but it was not real. Brant and Fox both knew that.

"Good day, boys," he said, standing and shaking each of their hands in turn. Neither of them shook very firmly. "How is your day going? They weather is just disgusting, isn't it? I wish we could have at least one nice day. It's been 'partly cloudy' every day this month!" He sort of laughed, but Brant stopped him.

"What do you have for us?" he asked. Will looked at him, eyebrows now raised in surprise. "Well, Joseph, I would be much happier if you'd please humor me. You've grown sharp over the years, but you've lost your charm altogether." Will walked away with a smile and took a seat on the rusting bench again, crossing his legs. "You'd be good to answer my questions. I hold the information you want." He waited, then said again: "Are you enjoying your day?"

"It's actually been pretty shitty," Brant said, exaggeratedly. "I was hoping this meeting might shine some light on everything."

Will shook his finger and clicked his tongue. "The language, Joseph! Watch the language!" He laughed and stood, then walked over to him and got as close as he could, speaking very quietly in his ear now. "You should really try to control that temper," he whispered. Brant shoved him away, but he grabbed him by the collar and looked furiously back at him. Brant looked at him, slightly frightened. "You listen, you fuck – you've been making too much trouble and now it's time to pay the piper!" He backed away and raised his left arm, the door of the Suburban swinging open and a five men filing out, four of which carries standard side arms and one of which stepped nearer than the rest, taking his place beside Will.

"I'm afraid I can't provide those files which you so desire, but it's been fun doing business," Will proclaimed and the man beside him grinned wide. Brant and Fox both knew him.

"But, Lexus and the boys will take good care of you."

There he was – Lexus – grin flashing bright and cruel, angry jagged eyes piercing Brant's chest. He wanted to kill him. He wanted to see him suffer. He wanted to spring forward and wring his neck, beat him until he had no more blood to bleed. But, before he could do anything, Fox had grabbed him, pulled forth his sword, and pulled him toward the truck, bullets whizzing past them – each and every one spiraling wildly off the blade.

He fell into the passenger seat, head down, and Fox started the car. He put it in reverse, screeched back into the parking lot, and turned sharply for the exit. Brant sat up and could see Beck's men hurrying back into the Suburban, Lexus turning quickly into the driver's seat and putting it in gear.

Both vehicles sped out of the lot, swinging wildly onto the road and changing lanes at a furious pace, pedals to the floor, speedometers reaching speeds they never knew they could, and dodging oncoming traffic.

And that was the beginning – of their chase and of everything else. The gears were turning, the truths were appearing, and the tables were turning. To what end, no one was quite sure, but it would be Armageddon. It would be chaos. The second half of the final chapter.

~*~

When Daves and Raiden walked into the room, they were taken swiftly by Crais and Turkish and held off to the side. KING and Sears ignored them, talking in hushed voices, and Dr. Kelmar worked his way down a long line of shiny silver instruments, examining each and every one as he passed. Lying on a bed in the center of the room was Snake, bullet still wedged in his skull, eyes shut and face grim as always, and in a bed beside him was another body covered with a plain white sheet. Daves seemed to be enjoying all of this, even seemed likely to fit in with the enemy, but Raiden was watching around the room nervously. And watching Snake especially. Sad that he'd let him be sprawled out on that stiff bed, dead and cold. But, when he saw KING nod to Kelmar and saw him uncover something at the end of the long line of shiny silver instruments, he was mesmerized like he'd been just once before. Being carried over to the two beds, the cage-like frame hovering inches away from the bright white light within, was the Perfect Cell.

~*~

And that would be it – the turning point. Now, the end was coming. And at last, the race was on.

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, there's another chapter. Sorry, it's going slowly, but I need more reviews. I mean I really really really need more reviews. I'll keep writing, but the pace isn't going to get any quicker if I don't have anything to look forward to. And right now it doesn't seem as if anyone is reading at all. But onto more important things – this chapter jumped around a lot, but I hope that helped make it more exciting, more dramatic. Things are coming together now and eventually you'll have the whole truth and nothing but! Thanks again for reading this much! And I hope you're all enjoying it!! I'm trying me hardest to write me best __J__ Ciao! *tips his hat*_


	24. Not a Soul Was Settled

Chapter TWENTY-FOUR: Not a Soul Was Settled

_"What had happened up to that point was all preliminary, really. The background was set, the sides had been taken. Of course, there was much more to it, but at that point things seemed to be making sense. Finally, they could say that, though things weren't really going for them, it was starting to clear up. Unfortunately, though, that was all about to change. And soon."_

~*~

"Seat belt," Fox said calmly, buckling himself in and swerving out of the way of a passerby. Screams and hollers followed them along the street, but were swiftly silenced as the Suburban came rolling through. Brant looked at Fox worriedly, almost as if he no longer saw Fox sitting there at all, but someone else – someone crazy. Fox turned, faced him, and grinned. Brant clicked on his seat belt and Fox looked back out the dashboard. "Isn't this fun?" he said, almost laughing, and jerked hard on the steering wheel, pressing firmly down on the brakes as he did so. The truck squealed out, and he maneuvered it skillfully into a wide alley opening on the right.

Brant held the sides of his seat tight and peaked out of the window to see the Suburban screech to a near-stopping point before turning sharply into the alley. Fox looked down at the radio and adjusted it until he found a good station and until the volume was loud enough to blow his ear drums. "Gotta have music!" he cried wildly as he attempted to keep left of a tall rusting dumpster. Then, at the end of the alley, he turned left onto another main road. Oncoming traffic went past as a long blur. Fox never once checked the rear-view mirror, but Brant kept a heavy eye on it, making sure the Suburban didn't come too close.

"So! Where are we heading?!" Brant yelled over the music. Fox kept nodding his head to the beat – some techno song that was lighting up the streets with sound – but stopped rather abruptly and turned down the volume on the radio. Then, he pointed to Brant's jacket pocket. Brant waited and listened until he heard the humming of his cell phone.

Plucking it out of his pocket, he tossed it to Fox whose hand was open and waiting. Clicking it on, he lifted it to his ear. Before he could speak he was bombarded with yells.

"Stay away from Beck! He's in to have you killed!" It was Desperado. From the sounds of things, he was driving also. "Where are you now?" His voice was frantic, out of breath.

"Just eluding some of our friends from the NSA," he said with a strange smile, just as a loud crack shattered the window in the back of the truck and went on to do the same to the front. Brant ducked instinctively and Fox turned his head slowly to check the damage. He could see a man hanging out the window of the Suburban, gun in hand. "What's happening there?" he went on to ask Desperado as another shot rang out, hitting the side of the truck but not doing a great deal of damage.

"Nothing but trouble," he said fast. "Listen, you need to get in the dark. As long as you're running around you're at risk. The whole government is at odds with us today."

"Strange," Fox said, almost as if he was thinking deeply about the situation, "that doesn't come as a surprise to me." He was smiling again.

"I have to go, Fox," Desperado returned, another voice sounding on his end. It seemed to Fox like someone was yelling directions. "Remember, get in the dark!" Fox nodded to himself and said swiftly: "Have a good one."

He pressed off the phone and handed it to Brant, pulling out of the way of some oncoming traffic and turning onto a side road. Brant slid violently to the right, banging against the window and dropping the phone at his feet. Gun shots were still flaring behind them, but the Suburban was no nearer now than it had been when they'd started out of the parking lot.

Fox noted something odd about the next intersection. Just past it, the street they were on turned into a one way road – going opposite the way they were going. Checking the traffic for a moment as Brant sifted around the floor of the car in search of the cell phone, it didn't seem as if the one way road was too busy. At least, not for him.

"Hold on," he muttered, twisting the volume back up on the radio and pressing harder on the gas in hopes of making the green light. He needed all the help he could get at this point.

Brant grabbed hold of his phone and sat up, one hand over his ear to shield the music, and looked over the dashboard. The obvious reaction would be to yell or start thrashing about in your seat, but Brant was tired of it all. Who the hell cared if they died now? Either way, they were being hunted by the United States government. What chance did they have, even if they did survive the chase? So, rolling his eyes and exhaling fully, he looked sideways at Fox and opened the glove compartment, pulling forth a shiny six-shooter.

Fox eyed him with sudden admiration and smiled. "Rock and roll," he said softly, and Brant laughed. "What the _hell am I doing here!"_

They ran through the green light just as it turned yellow, and there before them was an angry swarm of colors – red, black, maroon, green, yellow, brighter yellow, a deep blue – all racing furiously in their direction. Fox wasn't nodding to the music anymore. He was watching the road intently, eyes unwavering, hands gripping the steering wheel tight. And Brant wasn't just sitting there any longer. He was hanging out the window, taking aim at the Suburban that had just started up the slowly-slanting hill behind them.

He had fired just twice when he caught the windshield with a bullet. It cracked and went white, but it didn't shatter. The only real reaction he got was a hail of automatic gunfire, at which point he rolled back inside the car and held his head low. Fox had moved forward in his seat, eyes going straight over the top of the dashboard. He was pulling the steering wheel left and right, accelerating and decelerating so quickly Brant was made easily carsick.

"Where to?!" Brant yelled. Fox didn't answer, just kept driving, but after a while Brant came to recognize the route. They'd come this way after leaving Norman Keys' apartment. And so, after the automatic fire had ceased, the glass in the windows completely missing and the bed of the truck spotted like Swiss, Brant nodded to himself and bolted back out the window, twisting wildly to his left and firing three more shots – only one hitting anything. But, when he heard the bust of air and the squeal of wheels spinning on pavement, he knew he'd hit the mark.

One tire was torn, the gash quickly tearing down its side. And in seconds, the Suburban lost control and darted into the side of a little florist shop off the road. Smoke trailed up its hood, the shop window in disarray, and Brant saw Lexus jump out of the front seat, a telephone to his ear. Brant couldn't quite tell what happened next, but as Fox pulled off the one way street to the right, he saw Lexus look up to the sky, grinning. Then, he saw that more than four cars had been overturned and sideswiped in their passing.

Brant looked to Fox, but he couldn't dare criticize his driving skills now. Fox was smiling again, and even if he might have injured a few people back there, he'd gotten them out safe and sound. Swallowing hard, he looked back over the road, the apartment building in which Norman Keys lived, no more than five intersections ahead, and whistled like one would to a fine lady passing them on the street.

"Wow," he said, and peering sideways at Fox: "We should do that more often."

~*~

A cold feeling stretched over his entire body – like ice. It covered him completely, pricked at his skin, almost burned like chilled skin under warm water. His eyes stung, his muscles felt torn, his heart ached. And his forehead pounded with pain unlike any he'd ever felt. There was a feeling that something was missing, his face felt smashed, nose felt crooked, every piece of hair on his head felt like a needle pressed into his flesh. There was a sense that along every inch of his body, an open wound burned anew, felt to have been cut into him just that moment. Everything came alive with pain and with soreness.

And then, he felt a trembling in the depths of his chest, something trying to break free throughout him. He felt that it was warm. It tickled his insides, his brain even thinking to twinge, and he yearned for it, though he didn't know what it was. His body wanted to mold around it, live off its heat, and in just the next moment he trembled and tensed – every muscle tightening and springing wildly to life. The thing in his chest seemed to explode through him, seemed to burn in every depth of his being. The blood began to course through him, the icy flesh turned warm and smooth, his nose straightened. His fingers filled with warmth, his toes filled with warmth. Every part of him was suddenly as it had been more than an hour before – but better than it had been, then.

The heat worked its way up and up, through and through, until – in a single instant – he felt his eyes burst open, his mind break free, his heart pump regularly in his chest. And when that happened, he knew who he was and where he was.

Solid Snake, sitting up on a hard bed and surrounded by so many faces – all somewhat blurry, but still acknowledgeable. There was KING, his face twisted into a bright smile. There was Sears, his fingers moving along the bristly hairs on his chin. There was Tintern, eyes shut, face lacking all emotion. There was Raiden, a look of guilt burning in his eyes. And Daves, a man he'd only seen once, and in the presence of Sears. And there stood Dr. Kelmar, face warm and kind, but hands looking wretched and twisted, white gloves pulled over them to conceal the sickening veins that pulsed along his knuckles. And in his hands rested the Perfect Cell, trapped again within the wire-cage he'd seen it years before. How long ago all of that seemed now…

It was only then that he realized he'd been dead, only then that he realized the Perfect Cell had been swimming in his own body – only then that he began to wonder who was beneath that white sheet on the bed beside him and why, when he looked at May who stood in a corner, seemingly meditating, some sort of recollection sparked to mind, some sort of knowing. All of that he wondered, but he would know only one thing in the next moment – just one. He would know – remember – how to be afraid.

Dr. Kelmar looked to KING who nodded and stepped out of the corner, smiling at Snake as if he saw him as a son, as someone worth loving, worth protecting. KING walked slowly toward him and stopped at the foot of his bed.

"Son," he began (something in Snake cringing as the word was spoken), "I feel it is only right for you to be alive, to be present for this." Present for what? Snake thought. "Finally, it has become possible." KING began to pace around the room, eyes no longer on Snake.

"I have waited years for this day. Through the sacrifices of many soldiers, all of which believed entirely in my philosophy – that the soldier belongs to a race solely its own, that the soldier should forever reign, forever be worshipped and idolized – this day has been made possible. This day has been made a reality – no longer the fantasy I harbored since the beginning of all this." Snake couldn't tell what he meant. The beginning of all what? There'd been so many beginnings. "At last, the puzzle may be made complete."

KING nodded again to Dr. Kelmar, but Snake found this odd. Kelmar had not reacted to the nod. He had turned back to his instruments, those lying out on the tables before him, but he had not smiled or saluted or done anything in return. After KING waited, his hopes suddenly fleeting, there was a sharp movement from the direction Snake had seen Tintern standing. And at that same moment, Crais and Turkish, followed by Red – not May, Snake noticed – brandished their guns, Kelmar retreating behind them, fearful of being within arm's distance of KING at such a time.

"No," KING muttered, Sears running forward to block their aim. KING pushed Sears aside and looked crestfallen to Tintern, head shaking in disbelief. He couldn't say anything more, but when Sears grabbed for his gun Tintern shot just shy of his left ear.

"Neither of you move," Tintern said. Snake looked to Daves and Raiden and saw that both of them were in awe. Daves seemed more subtle, though. "Lock the doors," she proceeded to command and Red went to each of the doors, locking them all. As she locked them in, a small phone attached to Tintern's hip started ringing. She took it from her hip, eyeing Snake out of the corner of her eye, and lifted it to her ear. Speaking into it, she said: "Yes?"

The voice on the other end was loud enough for the entire room to hear. "_We're nearing Trinket now! Visibility is low – give us some light on the roof!"_ Tintern nodded and clicked on her radio. "I need a unit to activate the roof lights," she said swiftly and hooked it back onto her waist, talking again into the small phone. "We're on it. Is there anything else?" There was a short pause, then: "_Make sure we don't have much to deal with when we arrive! We need this to be quick."_ "Roger that. Safe landing." And Tintern ended the call.

Turning on the radio once again, she said into it: "All teams give their locations." She waited for a moment, but no one answered. Just then, there came a heavy slam at the door. There was screaming, loud yells, and gunfire. Snake couldn't help think of Fox. KING's voice sounded quickly, "You damn fools. There were reports of an intruder in this wing. Those are my men out there! Let them in before they're slaughtered!"

Tintern looked nervously to May who, eyes shut, said aloud: "It is the one. His 'other' is with us here." Tintern went to the door and thought on opening the door, the screams escalating.

"Where the hell is it?!" one man hollered. "Where – ugh…aghhh!" Tintern backed away as more gunfire was let loose, more pounding on the door, more men pleading that the doors be opened. And then another door began to shake, and another, until all four of the doors around the room were rattling wildly, ferociously. The soldiers outside knew that the rest of them were waiting inside. They were going crazy with fear. They never thought to abandon the wing, but they knew that they would eventually be tracked – and killed.

It was terrible. None of those within the room could understand what seemed to be massacring the soldiers outside. Their estranged cries continued to ring, though, the pounding still shaking the room, until slowly it all stopped. The gunfire disappeared, the doors became still, and the voices were lost. They all waited in silence for a long minute before Tintern's phone rang again. She answered it.

"Yes?"

_"Where are those lights! We need the lights!" The voice was ecstatic. Tintern sighed._

"You can get on without the lights," she said with a sharpness in her voice. Everyone was dead – there was no way those lights were going on. Then, her voice calm and cool again. "You're Spetsnaz. You can handle anything." There was a short pause as everyone in the room registered this fact – Spetsnaz was coming? Why Spetsnaz? "Besides," she went on, "I don't think there will be much trouble getting past the soldiers. It seems they are all ready dead."

Silence. Then: _"Roger that."_

"But, watch your back. Be keen to sound. It seems we have an 'invisible intruder'. Someone whose been killing off our men." There was an uneasy silence that followed, and then:

_"We'll watch out for that. But, don't you worry – we'll be sure to get your guy there." Tintern smiled wide, for the first time seeming truly happy, and without saying anything more, she ended the call and put the phone back along her beltline. Just then, May's voice broke the silence – confused, almost worried, and yet slightly foreboding._

"I cannot follow it…the man…or the creature, whatever it is. It is there one moment…and yet, not the next." Everyone seemed to be listening to him. And Snake, who was still wondering why he seemed to feel some sort of recollection of the man, was listening closer than any of them. "He is a beast…an animal. I am not sure where he has gone to now, but he is not far from here. He is still watching…plotting – waiting for us to falter, waiting for his chance to kill." And then, after another long silence, he said, voice curdling Snake's blood, "He has left only us."

And it was true. They were the last ones alive, and they'd be the last ones to die – to be slaughtered, picked off one by one or eliminated altogether. But however it was to happen, it didn't matter. The creature's mere presence was as lethal as its tactics. And that made only one thing certain – not a soul in that room was settled.

They were all afraid now.


	25. Back on the Job

Chapter TWENTY-FIVE: Back on the Job

_"With the whole of the government waiting for the Vice President's commands, Snake and his company are finding themselves out of the frying pan and into the fire. They knew it wasn't over, but they never would have guessed what was coming next...who would betray them, who would help them, and who would show his face just as they thought they could handle no more."_

~*~

They parked the truck out of sight from the road and quickly got out. Looking up only briefly, Brant saw that the sky was beginning to cloud over – dark gray storm clouds rolling over the sun and sending a wide shadow over the lot and, slowly, over all of Charleston, as if consuming it block by block. Fox led the way to the back door, through which he and Brant passed before coming to an elevator. Fox pressed the 'Up' button and watched it glow orange, a muffled ding sounding as the cart descended from whatever floor it had remained idle. Brant and Fox both stood before the closed elevator doors, nothing but silence passing between them, even as their minds raced wildly. Why was the elevator taking so damned long? Of course, it wasn't taking any longer than usual, but it sure did seem that way – with the NSA on their trail.

The muffled ding came again and the elevator doors slid too-slowly open. Brant hurried in and pressed the number eight on the board before Fox had even entered the cart. When the doors shut behind him, Fox, still staring straight ahead, said: "I sure hope it takes that long when _they try coming up." Brant smiled, but said nothing in return. Just waited for the doors to peel open. And when they finally did, he and Fox started around the balcony until they were standing before the brass numbers '812.' Fox knocked lightly, Brant peaking over the balcony railing to look for Beck and his men – they were no where in sight – and the door unlocked and opened._

Norman Keys was standing there, a grin on his face, shades on his nose. "Back so soon?" he asked. Fox nodded calmly, but Brant bustled past him, heading straight to the next room where Keys' computers all sat upon their desks, monitors shining bright. He didn't know why he'd gone in, but he felt it was better than standing on the balcony any longer – that much was for sure.

Keys looked at Brant and laughed, then turned to Fox who'd walked into the room. Keys shut the door behind him. "Anything new to work with?" He noticed Brant had taken a seat in a busted armchair – stuffing shooting out of every seam – and was closely examining his six-shooter.

"The Feds are giving us trouble," Fox said, going to one of the windows and peering through the drawn shades – no signs. "Is that really news?" Keys joked, but Fox no longer seemed in the mood. "We need to hide out here. They'll find us eventually, but it should give us long enough to think about this." Keys nodded, eyes still on Brant who was tapping the end of his six-shooter on the arm of the chair.

"What is it that you need? Anything in particular?" Keys asked. Fox didn't answer, just stood watching the wall. After a short time Brant looked up, the silence sparking him to life. Before he could suggest anything, though, the phone began ringing – two different tones sounding at once. One, more of a beep. The other, more of a ding. Keys put up his index finger and sighed. "Hold on." Turning around, he went out of the room and out of sight – the ringing stopped and his voice came muffled and dim through the walls, his speech unintelligible.

Brant looked over at one of the desks and next to a laptop was a phone, power light on. He wondered why Keys hadn't just answered it instead of leaving the room. After a moment Fox seemed to notice this as well, his eyes wandering over the desktops and catching sight of the phone. His eyebrow bent strangely and he walked over to one of the computers, eyeing the monitor - then he went to the next – and the next, checking all of them until he heard Keys step back into the room behind him.

"Norman – " Fox started, but when he looked up and saw Keys there, he couldn't quite believe it. Pointing in his face was the barrel of a Glock 18C, equipped with 33 rounds of semi-automatic fire. Keys was smiling brightly, another gun – one Fox could not discern – was pointed at Brant, who was sitting back in the armchair, six-shooter raised back at Keys.

"What are you doing?" Fox finished and Keys went on smiling.

"To think that you trusted me all this time," he said, trying to hold back a laugh. "I have to say 'thanks.' I've never had such a loyal friend." It was obvious to Fox, now, that he was joking. It made him sick with rage. "But, I'll be honest. I would have gone along with you if the Boss wasn't so persuasive." He was rubbing his fingers together – money was it, the reason he'd cheated out Fox. "I _am_ surprised you never saw it, though…I've kept in touch with the Boss for years. I even helped him back during the FACtion incident. And the government…they work a lot like him. The Vice President in particular – he accommodated me nicely even before I decided to go along. Why else would the director of the NSA be in South Carolina? He was here because you were here, and once they realized our connection they knew you'd come in contact. How right they were."

"You know what I can do," Fox said, looking briefly to his side, the edge of his blade dangling beside his leg, the hilt attached along his back. Keys was nodding.

"Yes…presentation was always your high-point. But, I'd encourage you not to pull anything." Slipping the other gun under his belt, eyes on Brant so as to make sure he didn't try anything crazy, he pulled another device from his pocket and pressed down on the button on its top. There was a faint beep and he smiled, thumb still pressed firmly over the button. "It's wonderful – the kind of things you can get when you're in the circle. Right here is a trigger. My thumb leaves this button and the whole place comes crashing down! Floor by floor – top to bottom." He was smiling that smile still. "Now, wouldn't that be a shame?"

Fox nodded slowly, looked over at Brant, and then grinned wide. "Yes, Norman…yes it would." And then, it was a blur. Fox sprung sideways, Keys trying to follow him with the Glock, but his movements far too slow. Swinging the blade off his back, he righted himself, Keys' aim still awkward, and pressed the tip of the sword through Keys' chest, shock overtaking his face and his eyes bugging out.

"Bastard," he choked, sunglasses falling off his face and clattering to the floor. Fox cocked his head sideways, finding the statement slightly ironic, and turned swiftly to Brant – just as Keys' eyes rolled upward, the trigger falling loose from his grip and something loud clicking off above them.

Sprinting now, Fox grabbed Brant off the chair, everything moving like it was in slow motion. The path to the door was not obstructed. Fox fit his sword back along his spine and, Brant's wrist still clenched in his fingers, pulled his shoulder to the front of him and bounded forward. The door buckled, splintered, and busted – in one piece – off of its hinges, flipping onto the floor of the balcony. And, without hesitating any longer, Fox climbed over the railing and rolled stylishly over the edge, Brant still beside him, the sky falling all around them.

Twisting in midair, levels of the building blowing out above them, Fox moved Brant overtop of him – almost on his back – and as the ground came nearer he held his hand forward. And then, they both froze there, a foot from the surface of the lot, Fox's hand seemingly holding them there. And, pushing off with his extended arm and spinning sideways, he and Brant landed gracefully on their feet.

And all of that happened in under fifteen seconds.

~*~

The President was sitting in a reclining chair before his desk, turning slowly in it, eyes wandering over his desk as he moved back and forth. His fingers were poised at his lips, his whole body stuck in some meditative state – but not really. He was merely experiencing what he experienced every day of his life. Tough situations lay some thousands of feet below and he had no idea how to address them. Of course, this wasn't particularly unusual, as the dealings of a President were never confined to simple decisions. The fate of the United States – the world, even – often rested in his hands. Just as it did now.

There was a knock at the door, all ready left ajar. The President nodded absently and the man wearing the suit and tie from the compartment before, the man who'd advised him to contact the Russian president, slipped inside the room and stopped to close the door behind him. Continuing into the center of the room, he stood idly and folded his hands over his front.

"Mr. President," he started, and at this the President stopped, facing him, in his chair. His eyes left the desktop and sat worriedly on the man who'd entered. "You spoke on the Red Line?" The President nodded. "How did he respond?"

The President pondered this for a moment, but eventually, eyes no longer focused on the man before him, but instead the wall over his shoulder, he opened his mouth. "I'm not quite sure," he muttered. The other man looked at him, confused. "He said he was taking care of it now…bullshitting me."

"You didn't believe him?" the other man pursued.

"He's never been the house-warming sort, you know that. He wasn't being truthful, though. He got the last word – got it in quick and hung up right away." He paused. "But, he didn't seem to care about hiding anything. He was an ass, straight out."

"What do you suggest, Mr. President?" The President took this as an implication. What the man really meant was 'Do you still want to go through with the signing?' But, the President knew that wouldn't look right. Calling off START 3 would be political suicide, and it would only lead to worse things. The whole world would know something had gone wrong. The media would be frenzied, spread the news to anyone and everyone. It would speculate until the government snapped, until it couldn't hide the truth any longer. And then, all the President saw was war. And right now, that wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't what anyone wanted.

"Mr. President? What is it that you suggest, sir?" the man asked again and the President, eyes returning to him, finally nodded and answered.

"Get Alex on the phone."

~*~

The room was silent apart from hushed whispers. Snake still lay on the bed, eyes scanning the characters around him. Tintern and May were sitting side by side, eyes shut and legs crossed Indian-style on the eroding tile floor. KING and Sears were sitting against the wall, Red sitting across from them, her gun held level at their chests. They were exchanging unfriendly smiles to pass the time. Daves looked confused, not sure, now, just who he was supposed to be buying from, lying on his back, legs crossed, one foot bobbing in the air, hands under the back of his head. Raiden wasn't frightened, but angry. He couldn't do anything. Snake knew how he felt. Dr. Kelmar was watching them all out of the corner of his eye as he pretended to inspect his equipment for the tenth time in the last two minutes.

"Does anyone have a smoke?" KING asked, flipping open his Zippo and sparking a tall flame time after time. Snake felt along his suit and scrounged in one of his vest pockets until he felt three cigarettes at the tips of his fingers. Pulling out two, he tossed one at KING who caught it in air and nodded. "Well, how kind," he said sarcastically before lighting it and touching it to his lips.

"How about the light?" Snake asked, and KING looked at his Zippo sadly. "Not this one," he said. "It's my favorite." And then, returning it to one of his pockets, he pulled another forth – a red plastic one with the cheap fluid case that always broke and ruined it altogether. He lobbed it at Snake, who caught it and looked at it, shaking his head in disappointment before lighting the end of his cigarette and puffing it once.

He threw the lighter back. Didn't say thanks.

"So…when do we leave here?" Daves asked coolly, still staring up at the ceiling as he lay there on his back. "Why don't you go check it out?" Raiden asked, mockingly.

"Yes," KING smiled, "go see how our intruder friend is doing. Why don't you go 'bust a cap in his ass,' cowboy?" He blew a trail of smoke from his mouth and laughed lightly. Snake found it funny, but didn't get past a faint grin. Red wasn't watching KING or Sears very closely any longer, but her gun was still on them.

"This is boring as shit," Daves said again. "I'm getting out of here." He sat forward and made to stand, but Crais pressed the silencer of his gun into the back of his head.

"Crais, you should help him out. We don't want him getting away from us now, do we?" KING smiled again. He was having too much fun, and no one could deny – besides maybe Tintern, May, and Crais – that he was actually pretty funny. Raiden and Snake weren't about to let it show, though.

"I don't take orders from you," Crais growled. "And you," he pressed the silencer more firmly against Daves' head, "will stay right where you are or I'll put a bullet in your brain." Daves rolled his eyes and laid back again.

"Who'd buy Metal Gear _then?" Daves said cockily, and just then someone moved out of the darkest corner of the room. Phil Harte stood and stepped forward, a look of anger painted on his face. "What does __that mean?" he said fiercely. Big Boss looked up at him and sighed. "Present Future has rights to Metal Gear. I'll be the one to take it home."_

"Actually," Big Boss said, wishing he could use his gun now, "no one is going to get her at this rate." Harte seemed furious now, but KING looked at him like he was a fool. "There is a gun pointed at my chest, Phillip! What the hell do you expect me to do?" Slowly, Harte recoiled, walking back to the corner to join the Japanese man who waited in the shadows as well.

And then, Tintern's phone hummed on his hip again. Eyes still shut, and the whole room going quiet (aside from KING who laughed and said "She's a popular one"), Tintern opened the phone and lifted it to her ear. "Yes?"

"_We're landing now. Where are you positioned?"_

"West wing. Check your map – it should be the old kitchen." Snake looked around and finally noticed the resemblance to a kitchen. Hanging cupboards, a stove and other tables on which the doctor's equipment was spread. "Get here quickly…we're all growing restless."

_"We'll be there as quickly as possible, ma'am." And the line was cut again._

Tintern closed the phone and attached it to her hip as Sears looked sideways at her and grimaced. "So," he said, "whose the visitor?" Her eyes opened then, her face still very clear of emotion, and with a stillness she said: "Be patient."

~*~

Fox and Brant had sprinted away from the building as soon as they'd landed, the final floors blowing apart and crumbling around them, and a vast cloud of smoke and dust enveloping them. Looking around as it cleared, their bodies layered with soot, they saw the pale yellow truck pinned beneath a slab of cement, the hood busted in and two of the tires deflated. Their ride was gone. Fox noticed that the sight made Brant a little sad.

"Keys was with the Vice," Fox muttered. "The NSA is with the Vice. The whole damn country is with the Vice!" Fox started walking away and as he went his temper cooled. Brant hurried after him, matching his pace as they walked out of the lot and onto the sidewalk in search of a side street to blend into. Leaving a leveled building was never good for publicity. "They'll think we're dead." Fox said, trying to free his mind, trying to wipe away any worries. 

Brant's jacket was torn, his face scared and stained with blood and dirt. He was having the worst day of his life, as many others were as well, but he was finding it hard to care any longer. They'd just escaped a building as it was being blown to shreds. What was there to fear?

They turned left onto a side street, police sirens going off in the distance and cruisers speeding by toward the site of the explosions. Fox and Brant ignored them. Just kept on walking until Brant's phone began ringing in his pocket again. He picked it out of his jacket and raised it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Brant, it's Desperado. I've found a place for you to hide out. I met a few friends here in the capital and they recommended some people." Brant looked at Fox and mouthed 'Desperado.' Fox nodded and Brant continued. "Go on," as he looked around the street, tearing a poster for a missing dog off one of the shop windows. Digging in his pocket, he found a pen and started scratching down the street address and directions as Desperado gave them out.

"All right," he said, when he was done. "What are you doing now?"

"Rounding up some people who might be able to help – a few supporters of the President," Desperado answered. "Do you know about the Vice yet?" Brant nodded. "We know he was dabbling with a guy who just about got us killed. And he's got the rest of the departments on his side."

"Yea," Desperado said. "So, get to that place. They'll help you out if you mention the name Dennis." Brant smiled.

"Finally, some good news. Do you want to talk with Fox?" Brant asked.

"I can't now. I'm making a stop, but tell him 'howdy' for me." Desperado laughed.

"Will do," Brant said, and he closed the phone. Fox looked at him.

"What'd he say?" he asked.

"We have to get here," Brant passed on the directions and put his hands in his pockets. "And he told me to tell you 'howdy.'" Fox smiled and nodded. "We go right here, then?" He pointed to the street sign at the intersection ahead and Brant agreed. They would go right.

~*~

Two helicopters set down on the roof of the building, snow blowing violently every which way, the wind fierce and turbulent. The routers were still turning as the doors slid open and as a number of heavily equipped Russian Spetsnaz units hopped out onto the roof, scanning the area with their AKs. They could hardly see more than ten feet ahead of them, but they took Tintern's word and counted on there being no more than one unfriendly in the area.

From the second helicopter came another swarm of Spetsnaz, their formation more defined. They seemed to be encircling someone, all walking in unison to make sure he was guarded from all sides. When the first team had searched the rooftop, they waved the second toward a small brick shack, through which a set of doors would take them to the main floor of the west wing. The first team, its many units scurrying about at their own accord, shut off the helicopters and waited for the second team to go slowly down the stairwell, the strong winds disappearing, but the temperature remaining much the same – merely a few degrees warmer.

At the foot of the stairs, the man being guarded stopped, three Spetsnaz pushing ahead of him and scouting a few yards ahead. The lights were on, glowing overhead, but they were dim and unstable, blinking back and forth. After being sure that nothing was in the immediate area, the three men waved on the rest and the remains of the second team kept the circle tight around the other man, the lights shining down over him but not lighting his face.

Their footsteps were mostly silent, aside from one pair that seemed to clap every time they touched to the cement floor, but as they went through the halls, slowing rapidly, they found hordes of bodies shot up and slouched against the walls. Blood peaked from holes in their chests, their faces, their necks, and legs. They were pouring their insides across the cold floor, eyes stuck in terror. The head three units pulled down their heat goggles and waited for them to click on before continuing.

They turned right, and then left, the first team separating behind them and going off to explore the depths of the facility. Each unit went with another, determined not to be caught off guard if the apparently invisible intruder snuck up on them.

And then, they stopped. The three leading looked around in subtle fear, corpses surrounding the walls of a single room – bullet-holes piercing every part of their bodies and blood covering the floors like a complete coat of crimson paint. It was terrible. But the man they guarded could be caught smiling, if not out of admiration out of amazement, as one of the Spetsnaz clicked on a flashlight to highlight a map that he held in his hands. Looking up, he nodded, and the leading three proceeded toward the room, around which the bodies were littered, and leaned against the door, knocking lightly and whispering something.

The man being guarded jerked his head to the left, a sound lighting his interest somewhere down the next hall. Two Spetsnaz noted his reaction and called on their radios to have a couple of team one's search the halls leading toward the east wing. Then, the door to the center room opening wide, Tintern stepping back, the leading three waved the rest forward.

Slowly and dramatically, the man stepped through the remains of human bodies, still surrounded, and stopped by the door to grin. And then, he turned inside, the leading three parting and entering the room, weapons at alert. The whole room was silent – in shock. Standing there, quickly accompanied by more Spetsnaz, the man lifted his head from the floor, the overhead lights shining down his front. Snake went numb.

Revolver Ocelot.

"I must say," he began, eyes focused on Snake, and grinning wider than ever: "It sure is good to be back on the job."


	26. On the Cold Cement Floor of Cell 36

Chapter TWENTY-SIX: On the Cold Cement Floor of Cell 36

_"Seeing Ocelot there was one of the biggest shocks of the day – mainly because no one saw any kind of logical explanation. The Perfect Cell was out of the question, as KING had reclaimed it sometime before Ocelot's death. And, as far as anyone knew, there weren't many other devices out there capable of bringing back the dead. Of course, the black market had to have something, but in all seriousness, to have another venue to bring people to life…well, that would be simply ridiculous."_

~*~

His spurs were spattered with blood from the halls, the soles of his boots and those of the Spetsnaz leaving prints in the doorway. A pair of slick brown gloves were pulled tight over both hands – one of which was unusually contoured, veins sticking irregularly through the skin – and pinned to his waist were two Single Action Army revolvers, their bodies polished and sparkling bright, though a faint tarnish ran up the handle of one. It was obvious he'd been away for a while, but he'd hardly changed. Standing there, his mere presence bringing both disbelief and shock to more than half those in the room, he was still the former-Spetsnaz, the former-Patriot and Metal Gear handler that had made his mark in history over the past decade. And he was the same Revolver Ocelot who was being held in Cell 36 of the small high-security prison in New Hampshire just over two years ago. The same one that died.

"How long I've waited for this day…to be back with the old gang," Ocelot smiled, and Snake could actually see the faint warmth - certainly not that of love or of anything else, but of familiarity. He was actually glad to be back in the company of his allies and of his enemies. It was what he lived for.

"You died," Sears said, mouth gaping. "How did you…" KING was looking at Ocelot with nothing short of admiration. He was one of the only men in the room who understood to what lengths the Russian was kept safe. He was the former Patriot of the world and he never took humiliation lightly. He would have the last laugh. He always did.

"Ridiculus," he laughed, and then, almost mockingly said: "Dead? I cannot die!" The whole room continued to watch him. "Though I would have thought the forensics would have caught that by now." 

_Forensics?_ Snake thought. _What the hell?_ What forensics? What would those matter? He was dead – everyone had been sure of it. There'd been no question.

"Let us return to Cell 36," said Ocelot as he stepped into the room and began pacing it, a Spetsnaz on either side of him at all times, hands moving to create dramatic gestures to match his story as it was told. "I was surprised, myself, when they came. Tintern and Esher – both remaining loyal to me after all that's happened. I'll even admit that when I saw them I too believed my death was near…"

~*~

_The moment the three had entered the cell, Mr. Allen pocketing the keycard and lighting a cigarette to his lips, the ragged figure of an old man shone hazily ahead, hair streaming to hide his eyes, grease pinching it into wet knots. A sharp sliver of light shined through the small window in the door, that which illuminated the side of Tintern's face, her smile twisted and cruel, her eyes still and cold. She stepped aside, though, turning away from the old man, letting the light touch on the very tip of the other's features – the unevenly sloped eyebrows, the crooked nose, the curled lip. And then, that face, too, disappeared into the shadows, its details left to the shadows, until Mr. Allen shielded the light from the door and a voice shattered the grueling silence, settling the old man's confused mind for just a moment, bringing an absent smile to his lips._

_"Be still, Shalashaska, and you'll be free of this hell."_

~*~

"They had it all worked out, though," Ocelot said, nodding subtly as he remembered the scene again. "They had a plan – a genius one. Esher would take my blood. She would surrender to this prison to take my place."

~*~

_Mr. Allen never moved from his place by the door. Tintern and Esher went quickly to work, one of them pulling out a pair of scissors and snipping pieces of hair from the old man's tangled mop, and the other stabbing a syringe into the crook of his arm. He winced, even thought to throw out his arm and strike, but instead stayed still, completely dumbfounded. The stirring in his arm was eerie and uncomfortable as blood was drawn into the chamber of the syringe, but he merely watched ahead at the vague outline of Mr. Allen._

_With the syringe in his arm, __Esher__ began to strip, and once she was bare she pulled off the old man's clothes as well, fitting them on and helping him into hers. After a short time the syringe was plucked from his arm, a tattered kerchief being tied tightly around his elbow to keep the blood from coursing too wildly through the wound. Then, silence for a time, until a small flashlight blinked on to help light the old man's hair. Trinket was hunched beside him, still trimming the oily strands, and after a few more moments she stopped and held a small mirror before the old man._

_Looking into it and then shooting a look at the other, _Esher__, he saw that their hair cuts were nearly identical. He didn't seem to have any reaction to this, but just remained as calm as he had been before. And after ___Esher__ and Trinket nodded to each other __Esher__ held her arm out before her, exposing the crook of her arm, and after three deep breaths plunged the needle into her veins._

~*~

"The plan was simple," he continued, still pacing around the room. "It was perfect. Nothing was to go wrong…but something did." Stopping, his glance falling over the cold tile floor, he shut his eyes and with a trace of sadness in his voice he whispered. "There was a flaw…"

~*~

_Esher__ began to convulse, her arms flailing, the syringe still poked into her skin. Tintern sprung backward, grabbing the old man and pulling him away from __Esher__. Mr. Allen did nothing, just stood there._

_For a moment, nothing made sense. No one understood what was happening – how_ it was happening. They just watched as ___Esher_'s___ legs shook violently, mouth twisted into a gaping hole, brow slanted and eyes staring, frightened, into the dark, looking for someone to come to her rescue. She was alone, suddenly alone. Three people with her and none would move by her side._

_The tremors continued for more than half a minute as Tintern tucked the old man under her arm and huddled with him in the corner of the room. __Esher__ didn't see her, even as she watched in her direction. She could see nothing, but her body was on fire, her veins pulsing with a terrible pain, her eyelids straining to stay open but refusing to shut. Her fingers were tensed, her feet the same, her arms forced to bend irregularly, the syringe waving as she shook – and her mind racing ferociously, a helplessness growing more visible in the lines, the eyes, the lips of her face. Why wouldn't they come? Where had they gone? Why had they left her?___

~*~

"She died there…instead of me," Ocelot admitted, everyone in the room realizing that it meant something to him. Maybe it was only the slightest show of emotion he'd ever squeezed from his frozen heart, but it was more than they would ever see again. "She had 'reached the limit.' Injecting my blood into her veins was like injecting a poison into her heart."

Pausing as he started up his walk again, everyone in the room was no watching him – everyone but Tintern and May. "As she died we fled. I held my head low, shielded my face as best I could, and headed past the three guards. They didn't suspect a thing. Mr. Allen held their attention and I managed to slip by unnoticed. The hair cut helped," he smiled a distant smile. "I don't remember much of what happened afterward, but I remember being on a boat sometime following the prison. Mr. Allen informed me when we arrived in Russia that he had struck a deal with someone from the government – a Charles Ward character," Daves seemed to recognize the name. "The ship had been manned by U.S. military units carrying some odd sort of disguise to appear as if from no nation at all. After we were docked and allowed to go wherever we desired, Allen told me that he was glad he could help. I thanked him. And killed him."

Daves looked over Ocelot with a disconcerting glare and the hatred Snake had for the old Russian returned, suddenly, with full force.

 "After that time, I rekindled my long-standing partnership with Alex Moore, who in the last few years had taken power as the Vice President of the United States, and so – " Ocelot stopped, turned to Snake, and held his arms out straight, "Here I am."

Yes, there he was. No matter how cruel or how twisted, this was no dream, no trick of the eye, like the trip to Cell 36. Revolver Ocelot was back. Determined to have the last laugh.

~*~

_As she choked and swallowed, trying to find her voice, trying to call their attention, trying to grab on to the last of the life within her, to hold it close and be warmed by it, there was a tugging in her skin. And from the wound where the syringe still stuck, blood began to run – first slowly, a mere trickle, but then like a faucet, a puddle seeping away from her. And with that blood left the warmth, the pain…but not the worry. As the time passed, Tintern, the old man, Mr. Allen – all still as stone – became blurred memories, the darkness before her fading to an even darker black, her heart turning cold, her frantic worrying becoming a sudden loss of hope._

_She knew they would not be coming to aid her. She knew that if they were still around they would be leaving her soon, abandoning her…she knew that she only had moments to her death, and lastly she knew that she was not who she had wished to be. Her body had not returned to her own, to the form that she had given up so as to live other people's lives. It had taken the form of an old man, an old man whose face was tempered by the fires of his hate, whose hands were wrinkled by the handling of his instruments, whose whole body was burning with anger._

_And she wondered, as the sound of her own breathing fled, as the beating of her own heart ceased, as the door to the cell opened and Tintern and the old man looked regretfully back over her before turning into the hall and damning themselves in their minds, why she had ever given her life for this man, this hellish old man. She wondered why she was to die this way, why she was to be sacrificed without thanks, without honor…without…dignity._

_And then she died, a heap of blood and waste, heart full of sadness, on the cold cement floor of Cell 36._

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, there's one of the big guns. I'd been saving that whole thing for a VERY long time. I hope that, even though you weren't really familiar with the actual character of Esher, this chapter managed to warm your heart a bit and provoked some of your own emotion…just hoping. Besides that, I would like to point out to everyone, so as to show you I didn't pull Keys' betrayal out of the blue, something from the second story in my trilogy. Return, with me, if you will, please, to chapter Twenty-Three, as Snake is stuck trying to move through the room in Tower One that is rigged with explosives and KING (The American, or Big Boss) is on the Codec: "'He's trying to navigate the SEMTEX sensors?' A voice came from a dark nook. It was on a Codec, and Snake's and Otacon's voices could be heard on the transmission, but his voice was not heard on theirs. '**Norman, run a scan on the third floor. I don't want to be blown apart.' There was a pause. 'In fact, the Snake might need some direction…Norman, give me Solid Snake's transmission, and cloak my voice. He is not to know who I am. Not yet.'" It was hardly a memorable detail, but it was there! Thanks again for reading, and PLEASE! Review a lot! We're nearing the last five-to-ten chapters!! YAY!**


	27. Opening the Door to the Demon

Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN: Opening the Door to the Demon

_"With tension between the President and the Vice President rising, and the question of who lay beneath the sheet weighing heavy on all those who waited silently in the rooms of Trinket, there was no time for a breather. What was happening now, though shocking, was only preparation. The final act was yet to come and if what was all ready in the works was any indication, that final act was sure to be one hell of a ride."_

~*~

"There is only one key player still missing from our lineup," Ocelot began anew, a grin springing to life on his lips, his mustache twitching anxiously, both hands crafting elaborate gestures in the air as he stepped toward the sink and stove. Pulling at each finger, he eased the glove from his left hand to expose the radically-contoured skin, veins etched into the back of his hand. All ready, Snake was sure what was happening. He knew what was coming. "This damn arm has tormented me for far too long," Ocelot confessed, waving Dr. Kelmar to his side. The apprehensive doctor did as requested, picking a shiny tool off the stovetop while Ocelot slid a ragged stool to the counter and laid his arm flat against its cool surface. "Of course this won't rid me off the problem in its entirety, but I welcome a better-tempered appendage for the time being."

The entire room braced itself, the Spetsnaz soldiers jumping to stop Kelmar before Ocelot told them off. Pressing a syringe into Ocelot's skin, he injected a thick yellowing substance that managed to, in a very short time, numb the length of his whole arm. The pleasure on Ocelot's face, that mix of wonder and giddied excitement, was indescribable. Snake saw his eyes sear red when the lights above caught their surfaces just right. It was like a portal to the fires of Hell, a window into the deepest and most wretched of souls.

And as Dr. Kelmar lifted the tool – a sharp knife from the looks of it – many in the room turned away. But, even as Kelmar made the first incision, followed by the application of more equipment and the grinding of both bone and muscle, Ocelot's terrible voice could not be muffled. All the while, he laughed and taunted, gaze upon his own bleeding body, Dr. Kelmar applying bandages and using all sorts of tools to maintain the blood flow.

Snake watched, but Raiden did not. Either way, it was it was a sickening scene. Worst of all was how Ocelot sucked the air through his teeth and made a sharp sound like the hiss of a snake. But, Snake just watched, seemingly unaffected by the brutality, only flinching when the arm came completely free from his body and remained still and cold on the top of the stove.

"Hold this to the wound," Kelmar ordered to one of the Spetsnaz, who clenched a sanitary cloth to the severed crook of his arm while Kelmar retrieved a long box from somewhere else along the counter. Lifting off the lid, he pulled forth a realistic-looking forearm with care and set it on the stovetop. Wrapping the arm of Liquid tightly in a cloth, he slid it aside and told the Spetsnaz quickly away before removing the sanitary cloth and craning over Ocelot's stub of an arm.

He went quickly to work, fiddling with each and every tool on the table, and proceeded for nearly an hour – an hour of Ocelot's slimy comments and shrill hisses, and of the slowly-engulfing cold, and of the exhaustion and misery of the rest who sat around the room. And at the end of that hour, when Dr. Kelmar stepped back and helped Ocelot to stand, Snake found that he was very near to drifting off to sleep. But, when seeing Ocelot bend his arm and stimulate movement in his fingers – though delayed and minute – he was wide awake again.

The new arm looked no different from the one he carried before Gray Fox's intrusion so many years ago on Shadow Moses, and it delighted Ocelot very much to be free of Liquid's 'control.' There was a lazy grin on his face, maybe due to the numbing substance he'd been exposed to earlier, but there was no doubt that this change excited him. "I imagine it's time, then."

Snake knew what for. As much as he dreaded it, as much as he may have wished to deny it, he was sure what Ocelot was planning. Before, it seemed no more than a possibility, but now that he thought about it, now, after Ocelot's most recent actions, how could there be any doubt who lay beneath that plain white sheet on the bed beside him?

His brother...

~*~

"You called."

The President of the United States shifted uncomfortably in his chair, phone receiver to his ear, and swallowed hard. "Yes, Alex," he said, Alex Moore no doubt sitting relaxed on the other end, not a care in the world it would seem. "Alex – I need help."

"What's wrong?"

It was hard speaking to the Vice President at the time. There was a barrier between them almost. So much was worrying the President, but the routine tone of the Alex's responses was chilling if not an immediate confirmation that he'd probably be of little help at all when it came to counseling the President or assisting him in making a decision. "Something struck me just moments ago. It was on my mind quite a lot at the time, but with the passing of two years it lost significance and I eventually gave up worrying about it. But, like I said, it returned to me just moments ago."

"What's that, Mr. President?"

"I seem to recall the incident in the harbor two years ago," he began, but Alex quickly interjected.

"When you requested the capture of Solid Snake, sir?"

The President paused, hindered in his speech for a moment. "Yes," he eventually continued. "When I requested the capture of Solid Snake." He pictured Alex being composed and serious on the other end of the line, though he knew that beyond his facial expressions this was all just a game to him. "I remember you meeting with a number of department directors, namely William Beck of the NSA and Carl Woods of the CIA just before the plan was carried out. At first, I didn't find it alarming, but I eventually grew apprehensive. I'm wondering, Alex, what was the meeting about?" There was a boldness in the President's voice, almost a mock-humor, like he was explaining this all to a four year-old.

"Mr. President," Alex retorted sharply, his first show of emotion since the beginning of the conversation, "if I remember correctly we merely discussed the operation in more detail. I wanted all the departments on the same level. I was hoping to avoid any misinterpretations of the objective."

"Misinterpretations, Alex? I'm sure we went over the plan more than a dozen times. If any further clarifications had been needed, I would have been more than welcome to provide. Do you think I am out of line to suppose your behavior suspicious?"

"Why, not at all, Mr. President. I only wish that you worried less about such trivial things and gave yourself a little more credit. I mean, you were the mastermind. You succeeded in nabbing Snake. It was quite a show," Alex said, being intentionally and obviously over-assertive. The President was quick to catch his tone and wasted no time in responding, inching forward in his chair as his knuckles squeezed the receiver.

"You've been working behind my back for almost two years now," he said, his temper boiling but his voice remaining forcefully calm. "You've been dealing with Russian affairs as well," he continued, speaking as if he was thinking aloud, almost ignoring the fact that Moore was even on the line with him.

"Mr. President," Alex exclaimed, acting very shocked and appalled, "I have no idea what you mean!"

"I've been watching you the whole time, Alex," the President sighed, eyes closed tight. "I can't believe you did this…and what are you doing today? What are doing that has to do with Trinket? You know what's happening there today. You're jeopardizing the operation…as well as START 3."

"How terrible," Alex admitted. "You got me, Mr. President! You caught me!" He had to be smiling wide now, grinning and nearly laughing. "It will be a shame when I have to speak up about you letting Big Boss out of his prison for your little 'operation' at Trinket."

The President was filled with anger, but was determined not to release it now. "Alex," he said, unable to fathom why the Vice President had done so much wrong, "you're committing suicide here." 

There was a short silence as the Vice President of the United States stifled a laugh and shook his head with a smile. "No, Mr. President, I'm just trying to be heard."

~*~

"Liquid!" Snake hissed when the sheet was pulled away. Lying on the bed beside him, most of his skin spotted or rotting and carrying a purple tint, was what remained of Liquid Snake. His skin was leathery and cold, but a very faint shade of peach resided in his cheeks. His left arm was cut off above the elbow – the rest of it lying on the counter. 

"The company would not be complete without him. I've all ready taken what I need and he needs two hands if he wishes to pilot Metal Gear." Ocelot grinned. 

Dr. Kelmar was very quick in reattaching the arm. He used simple stitches and left it at that before baring a shiny razor, with which he drew a long cut up Liquid's chest, separating the skin that lay over the ribs and setting in the wound some sort of brace to hold it open. Snake watched Liquid's eyes the whole time. Watched them as they remained still beneath the lids, hidden from them all. Snake imagined him watching them all, surveying them from his lifeless corpse, lighting a brief fire in the pupils of his eyes and catching a glimpse of the company. Snake imagined him grinning, but there was no movement in his lips. He was still. Calm. Dead.

Dr. Kelmar slipped off his first pair of gloves and pulled a second pair tightly over his hands. Then, returning to a box on the counter, he lifted the caging of the Perfect Cell – that bright shining orb resting within, suspended as if by an invisible thread. Snake couldn't help but cringe at the sight of it. He'd never found it so disturbing before, but after realizing it had entered his own body, after realizing he had been dead and returned…he didn't know how to feel. But, seeing Kelmar stop and hold it over Liquid's gaping chest made him burn with rage. He couldn't let Liquid return. He couldn't let his brother come back.

There was a faint click as the tip of a gun was pressed against the back of his head. He turned around and sneered at Tintern who was shaking her index finger side to side. She knew he would have knocked the Cell to the floor if she'd not been there to stop him. What good that would have done, who knew? But, at least he wouldn't have sat there and watched the whole thing happen.

That which he was now forced to do.

Ocelot leaned over Liquid's body and stared down into his chest, a grin shaping in his lips as Dr. Kelmar prepared to release the cage. Everyone was attentive, scooting forward, sitting up, or stepping closer to get a better view. Snake just continued to stare at the eyes even as they remained still. KING and Sears watched the hands. Daves, Crais, Turkish, and Red watched his lips. Tintern, Raiden, and May concentrated on the hair – wilted and gray and sparse. Ocelot watched the chest. The room waited.

Kelmar pressed two intersecting points on the cage and the Perfect Cell dropped, beautifully shining, its shape so perfect and stunning, its descent smooth and unhindered, and disappeared beneath the surface of Liquid's chest. Ocelot was amazed as the inside of Liquid's body was quickly illuminated, and the rest of the room was shocked as well as the hair grew long and golden blond, the dead strands either coming to light with the new or shedding to the floor, as his lips shuddered, the corners of his mouth squeezing instinctively, as his fingers suddenly burst to life, flexing and then going limp again.

The brace holding his chest open buckled and Kelmar fought to wrench it from the skin as it molded around it. Finally pulling it free, the Perfect Cell shot up after it and entered its caging again, its intense beauty becoming something less as it hung inside the cage.

And that was it, it seemed. Liquid was alive, but all so suddenly, he seemed just as dead as he had before. Everything was silent, waiting for him to sit up or do something. And then, he came wildly to life, his eyes shooting open and his neck turning slowly to Solid Snake. He looked at him with a sterile gaze, no sort of emotion existing there any longer, and thrust his arm sideways at his brother, catching him by the throat and squeezing with all his might. His fingers pressed into Snake's neck, but he tried to pry them loose as Ocelot pulled forth one of his Revolvers with his new arm and fired it at the ceiling.

A trail of dust came down and Liquid released his grip, his eyes quickly turning more human and his body coming under control. He became silent and subdued, but as he lay on his back and watched the ceiling, Snake eyeing him with the greatest hatred as he shrugged the pain in his neck, memories returned to him and the world rapidly came into view. He remembered his name, who he was. Examining the little pricks of paint on the ceiling, he recognized his breathing, his heartbeat, and he smiled.

"Welcome back, Liquid," Ocelot said. Liquid turned his head a little, looked at Ocelot, and sat up on the bed. Looking around the room, noting KING and Sears and Snake in his mind, he laughed subtly. And, with almost too much kindness it would seem:

"Why _thank you_, Ocelot." And when he turned and faced Snake again, they both felt the nostalgia. "Dear brothers…and father?" He says 'father' in mock surprise. "What a pleasure seeing you here." Snake could sense a broken tie between the two. Liquid had once made Big Boss' remains a request in exchange for the world's safety, but it seemed he found his father no more significant than Trinket or May or Daves or any of the other faces he couldn't put names to. Just another piece in the puzzle. Another branch of the family tree.

The door opened very quickly, two Spetsnaz entering the room. They looked to Ocelot who looked back in curiosity. They were both very calm, their faces stern and unchanging. One of them had a sharp goatee beneath his bottom lip and a thin mustache above his upper. His eyes were cold and gray, a characteristic that made him seem possessed or detached from the rest of reality. The other was clean shaven, but his face was skinny and long, his cheek bones bulging and his skin pulled tight over his skull. His hair was long and black and fell from the snow cap that he wore, greasy and tangled. They were strange company, but not in the presence of those all ready in the room. "What is it?" Ocelot asked.

"Two units were taken down near here just moments ago," the first said, his little mustache raising and lowering with his speech. His tone carried a thick Russian accent, which was fitting for a Spetsnaz. But, when the second spoke, it was clear that he was not Russian at all. His voice was obviously British, though only remotely so. He didn't look British, though. "We need to move you to another location," he said, and Ocelot turned and nodded to Tintern.

"Where are we going?" Ocelot asked as Kelmar began packing his tools by the stove. "We're going down one level. The stairwell is on the northern wall." Ocelot nodded. "Fine, then. Everyone, get ready."

Crais and Turkish stood Daves and Raiden up, Red made sure KING and Sears stood slowly, and Tintern helped Snake onto his feet. He shrugged off her light grip, but she grasped his arm tighter after his slight retaliation. "I'm let letting you run free now," she said, hushed, in his ear. Liquid sat at the edge of the bed and looked about for his clothes. He was there naked, the sheets covering his lower half, but naked nonetheless. "Here you are," Ocelot smiled, tossing a pile of clothes to Liquid who caught them and laid them down by his side.

He was quick about changing, but didn't particularly mind showing skin as he pulled on his pants, a shirt, and a long leather jacket much like the one he'd worn at Shadow Moses, but even more like the one Ocelot wore now. Smiling, he ran his hands through his hair and pulled on a pair of gloves, then holstered a SOCOM – given to him by Ocelot. The SOCOM, Snake could tell, was the same he'd been carrying earlier.

The Spetsnaz in the room quickly checked their equipment before going to the door and standing by it at attention. The Japanese man and Phillip Harte both moved slowly out of the corner, feeble looks on their faces. They were, if not frightened, a good deal uncomfortable in the company of so many soldiers. When Ocelot saw them coming over he shrugged for no particular reason, it would seem, and pulled a revolver from his holster.

The rest of those in the room were moving to the door, but when they heard Ocelot's gun slide free they all looked to him. He raised it level to the floor and fired once in the direction of Harte and the Japanese man. The Japanese man was thrown off his feet when the bullet struck him square in the heart, sending him onto his back – dead. Harte looked on Ocelot with a horrified expression.

"What're you _doing!" He cried, but Ocelot ignored him, pulling the trigger for the second time and sending another bullet through another heart. Phillip Harte sprung back and clutched at his chest as he arced through the air and fell, lifeless, to the floor._

Dr. Kelmar watched in only mild shock when the gun was turned upon him. Ocelot frowned, though only slightly, and pulled the trigger. There sounded the third loud crack and Kelmar crumpled to the ground, dropping a pair of shiny scissors to the floor. They clattered on the tile and Ocelot holstered his gun again after spinning it wildly on the index finger of his new hand.

"I'll take that," he said, taking the box in which the Perfect Cell lay dormant and going to the head of the Spetsnaz. Everyone watching him as he took the head of the line, disgusted or amused. But then, pulling Liquid up to stand beside him, that hatred building up within Snake again, he turned to the rest and put his finger to his lips.

"Be careful," he said quietly, "the creature awaits." And with that, the Spetsnaz opened the door to the demon.


	28. At the Hands of the Demon

chapter TWENTY-EIGHT: At the Hands of the Demon

_"So much went wrong, then."_

~*~

The hallways were quiet, but the silence fooled no one. Ocelot was led, with the others, by four Spetsnaz and as they exited the room three more flanked their line and closed them in, aiming their guns every which way in case a noise were to sound in the distance. They moved stealthily – all of them but Ocelot, Liquid, Tintern and Daves. They were the only three that felt comfortable any longer, but their casual steps were less confirmed and more foolish. They had no idea what was waiting in the silence. They believed it to be a lesser opponent. Something not worth worrying over. They were all unwise in their assumptions.

Snake was moving ahead of Tintern calmly, but with a weightlessness that made it seem almost as if he were gliding as May always did. A Spetsnaz was at his side, aiming his gun off to the right every time they passed an intersecting hallway. Many times, Snake saw another Spetsnaz at the end of the intersecting halls, moving parallel to their line and constantly making sure that their path was safe and secure. Liquid, who Snake could hardly see from where he was – KING and Sears and Red standing in his way – was toying with the SOCOM at his side, spinning it and stroking it and brushing dust or gunpowder from its grip. He was smiling all the time he handled it, but Snake was not so much angry as frustrated. 

He liked that gun. He wanted that gun.

"_Stop!"_ A voice echoed from the radios buckled at each Spetsnaz' hip. The leading three pushed Ocelot down so that he was crouching along with them. The rest of the units did the same to those they were guarding and in a few moments they had all ducked to the floor, eyes scanning the area. The Spetsnaz stood after a short time and began rounding the line, pulling NVG's over their eyes and looking down the dim halls. One of them pulled forth his radio and clicked it on.

"What is it?" he asked quietly. Static returned for only a second before the voice returned on all the radios again.

"_A noise,"_ he said plainly. "_Just stay still. We're reassembling the line around your position. Standby,"_ he finished and the radios went silent again. They waited. Listened to each other breathe. Watched each other watch. The voice returned on the radio. "_You're clear,"_ it said, and the Spetsnaz raised the rest of them to their feet.

"Got it," one of the nearest Spetsnaz said, the one with the flowing, greasy black hair. "Continuing on course," reattaching his radio to his belt. "Come one," he said, his voice a little more kind than that of most Special Forces or military personnel. He waved them forward and, with a smile, grasped his gun and held it ready in his hands.

"A noise," Ocelot snorted. No one else seemed to mind the delay besides Liquid. But, then again, it seemed they were the only two who had a schedule to keep with.

And then, in that very instant, there was a very faint release of air and the greasy-haired Spetsnaz who was now leading the group let out a stifled scream as his face seemingly exploded in a spray of blood and tattered flesh too small to discern from the gory mess. As his body slumped backward and flopped out on the floor, everyone made to crouch, some aiming off ahead, and the rest simply looking for cover in the open hall. The Spetsnaz immediately reacted, firing a number of shots down the hall and tossing a grenade in the same direction.

There was yelling and screaming as the Spetsnaz crowded tightly around Ocelot. Snake was crouched down, one knee on the floor and the other stretched outward. Red, Crais, Turkish, and Tintern were watching Daves, Raiden, and Snake very heavily in the midst of the ambush. No one knew what was happening for sure, but the Spetsnaz would take care of the demon. It was up to the others to keep an eye on the 'prisoners.'

"Unit down! We're taking fire!" The man with the sharp goatee and the thin little mustache yelled over the radio. Snake shook his head. The demon wasn't returning fire, but the Spetsnaz were too busy hailing its former location with bullets and grenades to see that. Eventually, they ceased their fire and moved to the back of the company, aiming their weapons in every direction.

Crais, who was holding up the back, let out a stifled scream and stumbled onto his stomach, blood pulsing out of a fresh wound in his side just before Turkish did the same, a bullet lodged in the back of his knee. When the Spetsnaz noticed the attack they redirected their attention, but before they could fire their guns or toss their grenades another bullet broke free from the invisible gun and splintered Raiden's left shoulder, shattering his bone into tens of pieces and drawing a short cry from his lips.

Snake turned to him and moved to aid him when Trinket set the muzzle of her gun to the back of his skull. "He'll live," she said simply, but Snake leaned closer to Raiden, lifting his neck and resting his head on his knee. There was a click from Tintern's gun as she readied to fire. Snake ignored the act, Spetsnaz crying out in fury as they sent everything they had in both directions. He pulled a syringe from a pocket in his suit, in which resided two other syringes, and pulled off the cap, pressed it into the crook of Raiden's arm. He pushed the liquid into Raiden's vein and then plucked it from his arm, tossing it aside.

"Bad move, kiddo," Tintern sighed and pulled the trigger. Snake jumped a little, expecting to be dead for a second time, but he wasn't. Raiden had let another, longer cry escape his lips, the bullet from Tintern's gun nestled in his other shoulder and blood spilling onto the floor like a narrow river. Snake spun his head around and pulled Tintern close, swinging his second fist and smashing it into her jaw. It sent her reeling sideways, but when she made to stand and fire at Snake, May set his hand on her shoulder and shook his head. Snake was all ready turned back to Raien. He was shaking, head on Snake's knee still, legs stretching and pulling close to his body, teeth clenching and head thrashing.

Snake was crouched over him, watching him writhe in pain – that pain reflecting in Snake's eyes as he tried to hold his friend still. Daves was watching closely, but he wasn't sad or happy. He was just watching, the Spetsnaz moving about, Crais and Turkish cursing, Tintern shaking her head, and May staring at the insides of his eyelids in silence.

"Come on, kid," Snake said, trying to help but not knowing how. Raiden was squeezing his eyes shut, tears and sweat running down his face. He was coughing and breathing strange, gasps of pain erupting every few seconds. "I thought you said 'clear!'" one of the Spetsnaz was yelling over the radio, most everyone else turning their attention to Snake and Raiden. "Get a grip, kid," Snake said as one of the Spetsnaz came over to him and checked the wounds.

Raiden was fighting for air in between sobs, his face muscles contracting, his teeth grinding and his body doing anything to be rid of the pain. The shot Snake had given him didn't do anything to help. And it seemed, as the Spetsnaz slowly backed away and stood, that he didn't know what to do either.

Someone said the area was clear and told them to start moving out. Most of them stood, but when they walked off two Spetsnaz and May were standing behind Snake, watching. They gave him some distance and turned their backs as Raiden attempted to speak.

"It—it hurts," he choked and Snake nodded quickly. 

"I know," he said, clenching his fists. Snake knew pain. He'd taken a bullet before – several, actually – but he couldn't imagine what Raiden was feeling with both of his arms paralyzed and blood spilling onto the floor without any sign of ending.

"God, it hurts…Sn-Snake," he tried to say, choking and going silent, head cradled on Snake's knee. Snake shook his head. "Just stay in there," he said, taking his bandana and tearing it in half, like he had for Otacon, and pressing it over one of his shoulders. Raiden went tense very quickly, breaths coming rapidly still. To stop the bleeding meant a whole lot of pain. Raiden shook his head slowly. Snake paid no attention to him.

"It's not s-so bad an-anymore," he managed, just barely, before squeezing his eyes tight again and waiting for the tears to pass. Snake was watching him painfully. He was watching him give up. Give in.

"Don't forget the pain," Snake said. "Don't let it go. Hold onto it," he said, his own voice beginning to crack. "Hold onto it, buddy," Snake said, the usual gruffness having faded entirely. Raiden was still shaking, but not as much. His face was losing its color. His sweat and tears were all the same now. Just a slick cold film stretched over his entire face.

"Snake?" Raiden said, opening his eyes just a little. Enough to see Snake crouched over him. "You were…a good pa-partner," he choked. Snake nodded, his face growing slick and cool with sweat. "A good…very –" he coughed, eyes flickering out, lids slowly shutting, breath slowing, legs relaxing. "very good friend," he said again and Snake nodded subtly. He didn't need to say anything more. Snake knew how he felt and as the cold touch of glass prickled his lower eyelid, a tear spilling down his cheek, he swallowed hard. Raiden felt the tear splash on his forehead and his breath quickened just before his eyelids fell shut one last time, like anvils crashing down on Snake's heart.

And when his eyes were shut, his body going limp, Snake leaned even further forward and dropped his face in his hands. And he stayed crouched there, saying nothing more, just making quiet little noises as he tried to quell his tears. 

And after a while he just cried.


	29. The Red Shirts

chapter TWENTY-NINE: The Red Shirts

_"The title 'Red Shirt' was one limited to dark alleyways and isolated rooms. Generally spoken by those of the White House administration and political and government analysts, even by some more-informed conspiracy theorists, around the time of the incident at Hell's Outpost and afterwards, it was a term used to highlight someone as a target of the Patriot and his supporters. With the connections between the Vice President and the Patriot growing stronger, enemies of the Vice were quickly added to the list and the Red Shirts were forced into hiding."_

~*~

Brant and Fox stood before the door of the rotting two-story. Fox raised his hand to the door, ready to knock, when a voice slithered through the keyhole: "Come around the back. The cellar. 2657." Fox lowered his hand slowly and started, with Brant at his side, around the corner of the house. The side and back yards were small, caged in by a tall white fence. Vines were growing up the fence to their right, as well as the wall of the house to their left, and when they turned around the back of the house they found the same vines climbing the back wall, two old, yet shriveled, trees leaning against the house, leaves all dead and withered on the grassy floor below, among which Fox caught a glimpse of rusted metal.

The two of them went forward, kneeling beside the heaps of leaves and brushing them aside to reveal a large red cellar door, its handle twisted out of place and rust etching intricate designs along its surface. Beside the twisted handle was a break in the door, its faint crack shaping into a small square piece. Fox picked at its edges and lifted the square sheet, beneath which there was a tiny keypad. "2657," he said aloud, reciting the number he heard spoken at the front door. He punched the digits into the keypad and replaced the small square piece of metal. There was a blip and a release of pressure as the cellar door lifted itself just an inch. Fox grabbed it from there and pulled it wide open.

The sun, its heat blistering and uncommon for the time of year, hardly helped in illuminating the cellar, but Fox, after gesturing to Brant to have his gun at the ready, stepped briskly inside. Brant followed, shutting the door behind and hearing it blip once more. Locked. And then, in the darkness, there came a voice – the same they had heard at the front door.

"Reach forward and you'll feel a ladder." At that very moment, a panel in the ceiling of the cellar slid open and a long stream of light fell over the ladder. Caught in the light were dust clouds so thick Brant was not sure how he was still breathing. The rungs of the ladder were rusting and old, left over, surely, from ages gone by. "Come on up," the voice said again. "We're waiting."

~*~

Snake was still huddled over Raiden, his tears dry but his whole body aching with a terrible sadness. Raiden's sweat and tears had also dried, the blood had stopped flowing from his wounds, and his eyes had not opened. He was not returning. For a fleeting moment he thought he saw life in his lips, believed he saw them quiver, but he had not. There was nothing but a peaceful repose, a silent shell. Raiden was gone. All that was left was this imposter, this mask. But it was something. Something Snake could hold onto.

There was a swift movement over his shoulder, a grunt and a gasp, and then two loud thuds. Snake shot a quick look over his shoulder and started when he saw May standing solitary in the hall behind him, the two Spetsnaz lying in heaps on the floor. There was an odd stillness to the man's stature. As Snake eyed him, though only briefly, he thought it possible that the man wasn't even breathing as he stood there, feet stable upon an invisible platform of air that rested just inches above the floor itself.

"What's that about?" Snake growled, sorrow laid thick on his voice. He turned back to Raiden, whose head still lay on his knee, as if unconcerned with the answer.

"He is in good hands," May said softly. "I suggest you keep a sharp eye out for the demon…you know, I saw him. I caught a quick glance. A whisper…a shadow of his face." Snake was tired. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't even want to move. "He fights like a legend, but he is new to the battlefield. His skin does not show the age…" Snake made no response, just looked down on Raiden's pale face and shut his eyes. May spun around, his back now toward Snake.

"I will be slow to inform the rest of your escape," he said, his voice delicate as always. "If you are wise you will leave immediately. Where you go to, I have no hints. But, with your friend dead you have nothing here. I will take care of the rest."

'Take care of the rest?' Snake thought, and as he whipped his head around he saw nothing but the two Spetsnaz lying on the floor of the hall, necks twisted and snapped. "Go, Solid Snake," May's voice repeated in his mind. "Go quickly." A cold wind shot down the hall and then there was plain silence. Snake looked down upon Raiden again before speaking lightly under his breath and easing his head off his knee. He rested it on the floor and slid back before standing and examining the halls. He could go one of two directions.

"If I'm going to kill him," he said, referring to the demon as if speaking directly to Raiden, "I'll need my gun." And with just one more look on Raiden, seeing his face relaxed and calm, he turned and followed the others.

~*~

When Brant emerged from the cellar, pulling himself out of the small trapdoor and making to stand in a brightly lit hallway, Fox was all ready standing, facing two men who both wore white button-ups with their collars unbuttoned and their sleeves rolled up to their elbows. One of them was a little fat, some thick-rimmed glasses resting on the tip of his pudgy nose, and the other was 'normal' with his hair cropped close to his head and his dress pants worn slightly baggier than the first. Both of them smiled lightly and nodded to Brant, almost as if considering their brief gesture to be some sort of salute.

"We were informed that you'd be coming to lend us a hand," the fatter man said. Brant looked questioningly at Fox who made no response. "Sorry if the cellar door was any sort of inconvenience – come this way – but the front door doesn't work." He'd begun to lead them into a room off to the left, in which there was a closet, guarded by a key code and three locks, which opened onto a stairway. "That's kind of the point of it, actually. I mean, it does open, but only from the inside and only after you enter about a thousand codes and key cards and – well, I figured the cellar door would be less of a hassle." They stopped at the base of the stairs, the walls on either side crumbling. The hallway had been bright and normal, but it seemed outward appearance didn't quite matter when they moved into the more secure areas of the building.

"Here we are," the fatter one continued, pulling a card key from his pants pocket and sliding it through a slot in the door frame. There was a beep, followed by three manual locks unlocking, before the door clicked and opened from the inside. The fat man held the door open for Fox and Brant who stepped inside the large basement area, walls the same as on either side of the stairs, but a long panel of computer terminals stretching from the left side of the room to the right, and small and large monitors covering the entire back wall. There were men, all wearing dress shirts or suits, reclining in chairs around the room or typing on the terminals or scribbling things on yellow legal pads. There was so much busyness in this cramped room, so much more than Fox or Brant had expected. The rest of the house, much as FOX-HOUND had done, was treated as a mask or a cover. But the equipment, the computers – all of it had been here for a while.

"An associate of yours by the name of Simon West said that you had information on the Vice President," the slimmer, more muscular man said. "We are, as you have probably all ready guessed, supporters of the President. Over the past few years we've found increasing amounts of information that have inclined us to believe the Vice President of the United States, Mr. Alex Moore, is plotting to remove his superior from office." As he spoke, he guided Fox and Brant through the small room, letting them catch glimpses from the monitors and computer terminals as they went by. "Our growing knowledge of the Vice President's more confidential doings has put our very lives in danger and so we were forced into hiding. This is our home as well as our office. I'm not sure if you're familiar with the term, but we're considered, by the current administration and others who are experienced with the dealings of the Patriot, Red Shirts – targets of the Patriot and now, since it seems they're in league with each other, the Vice President as well."

"If you don't mind my forwardness," the fatter man said, seeming to appear out of nowhere at Fox's side, "what is it, exactly, that you know about the Vice President? Mr. West told us you knew something that we might not."

A man broke into the room through the door Fox and Brant had come, someone having all ready unbolted it, with a worried look on his face. Picking up a remote from one of the computer desks at the back of the room, he stepped backward and aimed the device at the monitors on the wall. Fox and Brant, along with the fat and well-kempt men, watched as a television broadcaster appeared on three of the larger monitors, her voice exploding around the room. Everyone was still.

"Something big happened," the man who'd just come through the door announced, just before the picture of the broadcaster jumped to that of a leveled apartment building – among the rubble, the brass numbers once pinned to the door of Norman Keys' apartment most likely laying hidden. Fox and Brant both watched as every man or woman in the room – only two women standing in a corner and conversing quietly – stared, either angry or shocked, at the image.

"This is what remains of a many-storied apartment building on the east side of Charleston, apparently collapsed just moments ago. Witnesses of the event claim they saw explosions, beginning on the highest floor and moving down through the building. Police officials who've just arrived on the scene are giving much thought to the possibility of terrorist involvement, but they're not saying much more. They have, though, released a possible missing-persons count, based upon the number of residents signed in the building, and the number has reached near a hundred and seventy. Some witnesses are also claiming to have seen two people, assumed men, leaving the site just after the explosion."

The fat man and the other man looked at Fox and Brant, both of whom looked back, Brant hiding a strange smile. "You know who we are," the fat one said, the rest of the people in the room turning in their chairs to face Fox and Brant, "now who are you? And what do _you know?"_

Fox shrugged and jerked a thumb toward the monitors. "We know about that."


	30. The Shadow is Cast

chapter THIRTY: The Shadow is Cast

_"The Red Shirts played a large role in the operation of the __United States__ government all through the early years of the new millennium. For a long time, they provided the President with regular intelligence reports, but as the political scene became more dangerous, the Vice President keeping an eye out for anti-Patriot activity, they eased out of affiliation with the President and took up other means of informing him. But, in the years following the FACtion incident, the President lost a lot of his edge and grew afraid of exposing the Vice. In a way, it was his neglect towards the situation that let the whole thing get out of control."_

~*~

They pulled up chairs in the next room, which branched off of the main one through a door in the right wall. There was a table, long and wide and metal, that they sat before, side by side. Across the table were two men, the fatter one and the more reasonably-built one. They had their hands folded and leaned over the table a little, on the edges of their seats. Fox and Brant were sitting casually in their chairs.

Through the doorway, most of those in the main room watched as the two visitors were questioned.

"What happened at the apartment?" the fatter one asked, the other brandishing a rubber-gripped Bic pen and a white legal pad. Fox and Brant traded looks for a number of seconds, Brant nodding – a signal for Fox to begin the telling – and so, after straightening his back and clearing his throat, Fox started. 

~*~

Basement level one. The entire group, led by a gang of Spetsnaz and Ocelot, stopped at the bottom of the stairs on command of the Spetsnaz. Daves, along with Sears and KING, took a seat on the last step – Red held her aim steady on them as they reclined against the stairs. Tintern had moved away from the rest, leaning against a wall. Turkish and Crais both cradled their wounds, going unaided by the Spetsnaz who seemed to only be concerned with Ocelot's safety. And Liquid's.

Liquid was somewhat isolated himself, standing a few feet from the others and looking off in the opposite direction. There was a grin spread on his face, but something was eating at him – that was obvious. There was something missing from him. It wasn't his arm, of course, which he looked at for a moment and flexed before continuing to gaze further off, but there was most certainly something gone, lacking.

Everyone seemed to retain a similar look, though. They were thinking no funny thoughts, dreaming no pleasing dreams. Everything now was grim and violent and worn through. Daylight was dawning outside, though through the snowstorms it would probably not be noticed hardly at all, and the popular feeling seemed to be one of helplessness and of exhaustion. For some reason, it simply didn't feel right to be working. It felt as if a finale was long overdue.

"Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!" Crais hissed, kneading at the skin around his wound in an effort to slow the bleeding – or simply because the bullet lodged in his muscle hurt like hell. Turkish was breathing slowly, deeply. There was a piece of his own shirt tied like a bandage over the hole in his body. Daves looked slowly over at Crais and gritted his teeth, very obviously upset at the moment.

"Would you shut your fucking mouth?" he snapped at Crais who glared at him, popping out the veins in his neck and very nearly tearing something as his body grew tense, muscles contracting erratically from the injury.

"Is no one _fucking_ kind enough to lend me a _fucking_ hand!?" Crais hollered, but none of the Spetsnaz paid him any attention. Ocelot, though, turned on his heel to face him. He grinned, thought to say something – even opened his mouth as if to begin – when May came gliding down the stairs behind Crais and Turkish. He stopped at the stair behind them and Ocelot looked at him, somewhat oddly, until he realized that Snake was not with him.

"Where's Solid?" Ocelot said, his tongue slithering in the bowl of his mouth. His eyes seared with an angry curiosity, teeth bared, canines resembling fangs. 

May said very slowly and calmly: "He killed the Spetsnaz and made off." Then, he just stood there looking at Ocelot. There was nothing even remotely similar to fear on his face.

"You couldn't stop him?" Ocelot said. May shook his head. "I tried," he answered, "but, like I said, he got away."

Ocelot's stare was hostile. His face muscles trembled. And then he just smiled, after having watched May so closely it seemed he was analyzing him, and turned to face Liquid. "Liquid – why don't you go check up on your big brother?"

~*~

The halls in the second wing were no different from those in the first. The walls were crumbling and decaying, the lights dim – though those in the first wing were shut off all together. But, if one thing was different, it was the temperature. The air in the past halls had stung at his flesh, prickling it with its biting cold, whereas the second wing seemed warmer. Then again, it could have been from all the running, the fierce beating of his heart, the burning desire to avenge the death of Raiden.

                Whatever was causing the change, he couldn't exactly tell, but that wasn't on his mind. He wanted his gun and then he wanted to kill someone. That was all he was concerned about - that and the clap of boots sounding somewhere around the next bend.

                Doing as he always did and avoiding hesitation, he flattened himself against the wall and slowly inched his way to the intersecting halls ahead. The clapping was coming from the hallway to his right. It was growing in both intensity and closeness. Whoever was coming didn't seem to be worried about getting caught.

~*~

He told them about what had happened at the FOX-HOUND safe house, their second meeting with Will Beck, their race to Norman Keys' apartment building, his treachery, the explosives, their escape, and their tip from Desperado to seek shelter with the Red Shirts. Brant picked up from time to time to elaborate on different parts of the story, and when they had finished, most of the men and women having moved into the room to hear it all better, the two men – the fat and the reasonable – both slouched back in their chairs. The reasonable one clicked off his Bic pen and laid it on the legal pad, remaining silent.

Then he rummaged in his pant pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and plucking one from the box before pocketing it again. The fatter man, eyes steady on Fox and Brant, pulled a lighter from his pant pocket and sparked it to life. The reasonable one held the end of his cigarette in the long flame from the lighter and then put it to his lips when the butt was glowing orange and red. The fatter man put away his lighter, the reasonable one drew on his cigarette.

They both leaned forward, then, at the exact same time, the reasonable one blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth. Taking a breath, they stared ahead for a moment longer, before the reasonable one blinked his eyes and, looking directly at Fox and Brant, sighed and said to the others… 

"Get Emmerich on the phone."

~*~

"Brother?" the voice called, slithering down from the intersecting hall. _Liquid_, Snake thought. "Come on. Don't play games, Snake. Come out and show yourself. Let me get a look at you." The footsteps continued to come closer, Snake's beating heart accelerating as the voice of his 'brother' became more poignant. "We should sit down and have a talk – we've been apart for so long." He drew out the last word and Snake knew why.

Forcing himself forward and spinning around the corner, he found himself face to face with Liquid. And in the next quick moment, he had locked his arms around his brother's neck, and as he struggled to keep his hold tight Liquid managed to pull the SOCOM from his holster and pin it against Snake's jaw. They may have appeared unmoving from a distance, but as they stood there, holding each other with fierce grasps, their arms and legs and entire bodies fought to sway the opponent.

They stayed that way for a while, even, strung together and exhausted, gritting their teeth and tensing their muscles. And only after they both acknowledged that the other would never give in, they pressed off of each other and collapsed into each other again, this time finding themselves in a different stance. Liquid still had the gun to Snake's head and Snake still had his arms around Liquid's neck, but they couldn't have forced the other any which way if they had tried. They seemed locked there, Snake sucking air in through his teeth and Liquid grinning at their near-equal futility.

"It's good seeing you, Snake," Liquid said after a while. Snake didn't answer, just remained there in silence and listened while Liquid continued. "I'll admit I might be having a better time if I wasn't having to use your gun, but so far it's been a blast." At that moment there was a new race of footsteps coming from the hall Liquid had appeared. Snake, his eyes watching over Liquid's shoulder, saw three Spetsnaz units hurrying forward, their sub-machine guns raised and fingers poised on the triggers.

"Don't move!" one of them yelled as Liquid continued to smile brightly. Both Snakes could see the Spetsnaz coming from the way they stood, but Snake turned his head to watch down the right hallway as if judging his environment and planning out an escape. 

"You don't want me to die, Snake," Liquid said. "Snap my spine and you lose your tongue. And then, I imagine, you get a few shells in the face from _them_. That's not the right way to go is it?" There was another pause as the Spetsnaz got closer, easily in range of firing on Snake but hesitant, worrying that Liquid may go with him. Snake breathed heavily, cursing under his breath. _Damn, he thought,__ what now?_

"Snake, you're not dumb! You know you can't die. Ocelot wants me alive. If I die here, I come right back. If _you die – assuming your jaw is gone and your skull fractured to the point of disrepair – well, big brother…I wouldn't count on it."_

"Maybe," Snake said, the Spetsnaz continuing to holler as they were just meters away, "but they did it for Fox. They can do it for me." And then, loosening his grip on Liquid's neck, he scooted backward and pulled his head free of his brother's aim, proceeding to twist his SOCOM from his hand and turn on his heel, starting down a new hall. 

His legs pumped furiously. His heart trampled in his chest. His arms beat through the air.

And behind him, fading in the distance he covered every second – the Spetsnaz helping Liquid to his feet and beginning to run after Snake – he could hear his brother laughing. And then, after a few minutes and a few turns down new halls, he couldn't hear him at all. It wasn't until he turned through two tall swinging doors and found himself in a cavernous storage room, large crates arranged in neat rows and powerful lights grinning down on him from the tall ceiling, that he realized he now had a gun in his hand – the one thing he needed before going after the ghost that had injured his friend.

But, no sooner did he realize that than he heard a man speaking to him from behind – uttering a tone that was horrifyingly familiar to him.

"Finally – the one I've been waiting for." And as Snake moved to turn and face the voice, he felt a cold shadow appear out of nowhere. And as his eyes swept the floor before him, he saw it lay directly over his own. And he saw the two no different from each other. 

He saw a shadow identical to his own.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, I said it would get done. And I warned it may take some time. And, even though I'd said that, I still can't help but feel really really terrible about never updating. I love this story, but I'm finding that I'm just too used to Snake. I feel as if I've expended his character to the point that I've got nothing new to write about him. But, seeing as the story is moving into the more climactic moments, I think I'll be able to bring out his style and skill as I usually do. And, I think that as the story gets more interesting, I'll write quicker. For anyone who continues to read this – I apologize for my struggles, but I thank you endlessly for your continued support. Keep reading and I'll do my best to keep wowing. ~ espresso de gecko


	31. Spectral

chapter THIRTY-ONE: Spectral

_"An article on the FACtion incident in __Manhattan__ had reported that the weapons FACtion used in its invasion had been taken from a weapon stockpile near a place known as Trinket. Around the time of the invasion the President was briefed by department heads including NSA Director William Beck who provided a mass of background information on a building called Trinket – once the heart of the Russian Cold War Project. A lot had happened there that no one knew outside of that meeting room. And, as time would go on, it would become clear that __Russia__ was the stage of far more than previously anticipated."_

~*~

"You're the ghost," Snake said, his voice sharp and subtle, a sense of disbelief thick on his words. His heart had slowed to a normal pace, but his hands had raised, along with the SOCOM that fit inside their grasp, aiming at the man's chest. The man who wore the same face as Snake.

Each and every detail – his jagged cheek bone, rough chin, shadowed eyes that always seemed half-closed – was duplicated upon the stranger's face. He was the same as Snake, but appeared slightly more cut, nearly every bit of fat shaved off his body. His muscles, though not bulking, pressed against the material of his sneaking suit, one that was almost the same as Snake's – the Shadow Moses design. He wore a faint grin as if slightly amused, but it flickered and died very quickly. He did not have a gun in either hand.

"What the hell?" Snake said quietly. He didn't know what else to say, really. He'd seen things and heard things that rivaled the revelation at hand, but there just didn't seem to be anything worth saying. What do you say when you look in the mirror and find out your reflection isn't there?

~*~

The hotel room was dim and unwelcoming. The wallpaper was peeling, the floorboards weakening every day, the single light mounted on the ceiling dying out. There was a door in the back of the room that led to another, and under a window in the first room's right wall was a wooden end table and an ancient-looking phone.

When it started ringing, the receiver shaking on its cradle, footsteps sounded in the next room and a woman strode in through the only door toward the window and the phone. As she stopped by the window, lifting the receiver to her ear, the early morning light shone over her short red hair and she answered the phone with a heavy Russian accent.

"Yes?" She said briefly.

"Nastasha," the opposite voice began, "is Emmerich with you?" The woman, apparently named Nastasha, put her palm over the receiver and called into the next room, her voice loud enough to be heard from a short distance. "Pick it up," she said before putting the receiver, again, to her ear.

Following a soft click another voice came on the line – that of Hal Emmerich. In the next room he stood before a window, looking out over the streets of Moscow, Russia where the homeless were congregated to set up post in the early morning and begin collecting from the generous passersby. The sun that shone was hidden behind a wealth of streaming clouds, sending a dull gray light over the city. This would be the scene of START 3.

"Hello?" he asked. There was a very short pause before the man on the other line continued.

"We've got a couple friends of yours here. Joseph Brant and a…Frank Jaeger? They say Will Beck's dirty. We'll check him out, figure out who he's associating with." When Frank was mentioned Otacon felt a rush of memories sliding back in place – memories of the Ninja and the Romantic.

"What are they doing there?" Otacon asked, a part of him excited to hear about them, but another part remaining serious and business-like. He had grown much more familiar with the world of covert operations. He wasn't weak any longer. It was almost sad seeing him standing in that room, working in the heart of Russia, the sky cold and oblique. He had been hardened, though only slightly, by experience. He had changed.

"They gave us some information. They were referred through a friend of theirs' who goes by Desperado." Again, Otacon felt the rush of memories. "How is everything there? Any news?"

"Not really," Otacon answered. "There's no word from the Russian government. I imagine they'll stay pretty quiet until the signing." Otacon checked his watch. It was 9:10. "About three hours, still. A little more than two before the President touches down." Otacon paused. "We went over our Codec transmissions to Raiden, as well, to check for any listeners. We found a channel linking into our conversations. Whoever was linking in recorded them to a laptop somewhere in the city. I have to try and narrow that down."

"Who do you think would be listening?"

"Anyone. It could be Russians, supporters of the Vice, supporters of the President. We can't tell their intentions, so we can't be sure just yet. I'll look into it, though," Otacon said.

"All right," the other voice said. It sounded like the fat man, but it was hard to tell exactly. "Call if there's anything new."

"You do the same," Otacon said. And then, as the fat man was about to hang up he added: "Tell the two visitors I say hello." The fat man paused and then grinned to himself.

"Take care, Emmerich." And then, he hung up. Otacon stood there before the window, the receiver still pressed to his face, even after Nastasha hung up in the other room and came to the doorway, stopping there and looking at him as he stood among a mess or computers and cords all setup on rickety desks and tables. He didn't see her for a while – just stood by the window and listened to the dial tone.

Wishing, for a moment, that he was back home.

~*~

"I've been waiting for you, father," the man said. Snake looked at him, his eye flashing with surprise as the words were spoken. 'Father?' He was sure he hadn't had any kids recently – was sure that was impossible anyway. "I was told to find you. I was told you'd be here."

"You're no son of mine," Snake said, his finger stressing very lightly on the trigger of his SOCOM. The man didn't react much to Snake's remark, just as Snake most likely would not react himself.

"I'm not surprised you've forgotten me," he said. "You weren't exactly in the right state of mind from what I can remember." Snake looked at him strangely. He couldn't understand what any of this meant. Not the right state of mind? When was he talking about? Snake took a deep breath and blinked quickly, making sure the man wouldn't disappear when he closed his eyes.

He didn't disappear. He was still standing there.

"What're you doing here?" Snake asked. The man shrugged his shoulders. "I'm here for you. I'm here for you and your brothers." He waited. "And your father, also."

Snake didn't understand, still. "I am the result of the Selection." He took a step closer to Snake, and when he did there was a spark deep within Snake that weighed his finger upon the trigger of his SOCOM and sent a stray bullet over the man's shoulder. Snake wasn't sure what he'd done, but in the next moment the other man drew forth a SOCOM and held it lazily at his side. He smiled and Snake nearly fired again, but just before he flickered and disappeared he said, strikingly surreal: "I am Spectral." And then there was a call from the hallway.

"Come out, Snake!" Liquid said, and at that moment Spectral retracted, reflexes making him crouch and then, as he sprung to the side, he disappeared into the air, the patter of his footsteps being all that Snake could recognize of him any longer. Snake blinked his eyes, lowering his gun, and eventually turned on his heels and ran for a gap in the large crates around the room to find cover. And, when he came to the rows of crates, he slipped between two of them – a tight fit – and peered through the space to see what happened at the door.

"Oh brother! Where are you?" Liquid called again and Snake continued to wait and watch, his chest rising and falling, touching the wall of the crate ahead of him and then pulling away. It did this for a while before the tall swinging doors burst open and Liquid came through the doorway, his walk confident and assured. He was smiling, a new gun in his hand, and up from behind came the three Spetsnaz from the hall who quickly moved ahead of him and began to sweep the area.

~*~

Desperado stepped out of the van, three others – including Dennis – getting out behind him. Their faces were smeared with tears, but they were holding together. Every one else had been filled with bullets as they were chased out of the parking garage. Where they were, now, was a cul-de-sac south of downtown District. The sky wasn't as clear as before, clouds beginning to move in from the west. At the end of the cul-de-sac there was a one-story white house, white panels, dark blue shutters, an oriental style imposed on the columns that held up an overhang before the front door. Desperado had parked on the curb. There was no car in the driveway.

Desperado wasn't very stealthy. He walked calmly to the front door, the three others following him closely, and stood under the overhang while the others caught up. Dennis stepped ahead and stood at the door, pulling something from his pocket – he'd removed it from his briefcase earlier and replaced it in his jacket. When he slipped it out Desperado saw that it was a thin plastic key card, the magnetic strip running up one side.

Watching, he saw Dennis lift the lid on a box mounted beside the door to reveal a vertical slot in which he slid the card. There was a light beep and a bulb next to the slot blinked green. One of the two other men opened the door and Desperado and the others stepped inside.

There was nothing spectacular about the interior. There was no furniture, no rooms even. There was a large open area and at the end of it – two doors. The four of them went forward and opened the left door first. Inside was a restroom – shower, toilet, sink, mirror. Desperado stepped in, looked around, pulling the mirror away from the wall on a pair of hinges and revealing a few shelves of electronic equipment. Dennis moved in front of him and inspected it all before shaking his head and leading Desperado back into the open room.

Then, they turned to the door on the right. Desperado stood silent as Dennis turned the knob and slowly, cautiously, pushed the door open. As more of the next room became visible, Desperado noted a desk, a chair, a computer, and a number of gray filing cabinets. Desperado waited for all three of the others to go in. He'd always known this building existed and this room inside it, but he'd never had the authorization. It was the house he'd been asked to visit for Springfield when he first signed up with the Vice. It held all the files the NSA had recovered on Trinket before the FACtion incident on Manhattan Island.

Nodding his head and smiling, he said to the rest: "Let's get reading, folks."

~*~

The Spetsnaz worked quickly, clicking on thin lights mounted to the tops of their rifles and running past the lines of crates, shining the lights through the gaps. As they moved, Snake moved, listening to the patterns of their footsteps to anticipate what direction they were coming from and when they would shine their lights on him. He managed to squeeze back and forth quickly, avoiding them each time they came by. And as he moved, his heart racing again, he listened to Liquid's taunts.

"Brother," he said, his voice thick and sappy all of a sudden, "face me like a man. I'm not here to kill you, you know." Liquid started moving through the room, too, occasionally peaking between the crates. After a short time he shook his head, anger biting at his voice now. "Come on! I know you're here, Snake! Get out here and fight me if you wish! This is growing quite tedious."

Snake moved around the intersection of four crates, flattening his back and just being missed by a Spetsnaz flashlight. He stayed there, encased in the crates, feeling safe. He was up against four men now? Three Spetsnaz, one near-clone? That was a little risky.

"Sir, he's not showing," one of the Spetsnaz said as he continued to check the crates. Liquid shook his head.

"He's in here," he said. "Toss a grenade somewhere – see if that helps draw him out." There was a click from somewhere not far away as a Spetsnaz unlatched a grenade from his vest. Then, with a toss, the grenade sprung forward and skittered through the gaps of the crates, landing in Snake's view, off to the right, not more than ten feet away.

His eyes growing wide, he hurried to the left as quickly as he could, unable to turn and straight out run because the space was too limited. His heart beat furiously and he could hear Liquid still talking ("Don't die now, Snake!") and then, just when his voice died, the grenade sparked to life and exploded in his ears, a wave of heat and fire coming near him, warming his right arm and the side of his face. Shrapnel bounced into the air, the walls of two crates busted open from the explosion and twirling in the air.

Snake did what he could to cover his face and crouch. Nothing hit him, just the heat – and, a few seconds later, the ray of a Spetsnaz flashlight. And when he realized it was on him, it was all ready too late to escape. "I've got him!" The man had hollered and by the time Snake was standing upright again, the Spetsnaz had his finger on the trigger.

But Snake, who had his SOCOM in his right hand, wasn't going to die right there. And sliding his SOCOM along the wall of the crate before him, its course arcing over his head, he caught it with his left hand and fired one perfect shot in the Spetsnaz's direction – shattering his forehead and tossing him onto his back. Dead and cold.

"Shit!" another Spetsnaz yelled. Snake started moving immediately, trying to get away from where the Spetsnaz would be found with a bullet in his face. Eventually, he stopped and jumped, gripping the lip of a crate and lifting himself on top of it. When he stood, fitting his SOCOM in his hand again, he had gained the high-ground. He could see the Spetsnaz moving around below and stepped to the edge as one came by, aiming down and firing once – the bullet lodging itself in his shoulder and spinning him around before Snake fired again and pierced his lungs. The Spetsnaz stumbled to the floor and lay there. Snake watched his face as it was gripped with pain, veins popping out, muscles contracting wildly, eyes filling with tears. Snake noted how much ammo he had left – three bullets – and took aim, firing once more and stopping his heart.

Before he could move again, bullets hailed the side of the crate on which he stood, the third Spetsnaz passing below and firing up at him. Snake ducked down and stayed low as he jumped to the next crate. As he ran, he couldn't find Liquid anywhere. _Oh well_, he figured, and he kept his sights on the last Spetsnaz who was franticly racing about. 

Stopping, eventually, he ducked and waited as the last one came running by. And, with a swift leap, he bounded off the side of the crate and landed behind the Spetsnaz, crouched down, quickly standing and raising his SOCOM. He fired once and knocked the man off his feet and onto his face. He stayed silent. Snake stood still. His heart slowed. The sweat started running like mad. He wasn't ever cold anymore – always hot now.

"Brother."

Snake spun around, ducking and aiming his SOCOM ahead of him where stood Liquid holding an AK in the crook of his right arm. The two of them disguised their heavy breathing and their racing heartbeats and watched each other stand where they did. And then, not speaking a word, they both twisted behind opposite crates and flattened their backs against them. Snake noted his ammo – one bullet left – and Liquid checked his own – two spare magazines to go with it. He smiled.

"Let's go!" he hollered and they both peeked out, Liquid firing first and pinning Snake behind his crate to avoid being shot. When he has stopped and stepped back into the open space, Snake jumped out and ran toward him, firing his last bullet. Liquid jumped eratically out of the way and swung the butt of the AK like a blade at Snake's neck. Snake tossed his SOCOM quickly aside and caught the rifle in his hands, kicking it out of both their grasps.

Grinning wide, Liquid recoiled and then swung his leg at Snake's stomach, who dodged, rolled to the side, and caught the AK in his hand as it rebounded off the floor and clattered upward. Twirling to face Liquid, holding the AK in one arm, he pulled the trigger and let loose a wave of bullets. Liquid ran ahead of the stream, just quickly enough to get behind a crate before taking a bullet.

Running toward the crate where Liquid was hidden, Snake dropped a spent magazine from the AK and picked one up from the dead Spetsnaz on the floor, sliding it in place, all in one motion. When he readied to fire Liquid sprung out from behind the crate and kicked the AK out of Snake's hand, tossing a fist into his stomach and sending him staggering back.

Looking up, Snake smiled and grunted, returning the blow in Liquid's chest and pummeling him with his fists. Most of the hits were shielded by Liquid's forearms, but a few hit him hard. Liquid was walking backward as Snake continued to come toward him, but their movement was reversed when Liquid dropped and kicked Snake onto his back. As he pushed onto his feet he blocked another kick to the stomach and started moving backward, shielding what he could and dealing with what pain he must.

But as Liquid beat him with punches and kicks, he sent out a right jab and found his fist stopped in midair. And then, after trying to force his fist through what barrier seemed to stand there, a forearm appeared and then an entire body – another Solid Snake. The one who was called Spectral.

"Hey," he said with a smile, and Snake, Spectral, and Liquid all traded assaults, Spectral fighting them off from both sides.

They fought this way for a while, but eventually Spectral slipped two SOCOM's from his holsters and aimed them to the left and right – one on Liquid and the other on Solid. All three of them froze.

"This is what I came here to do," he said to them, and then, as his fingers stressed the triggers, Liquid and Solid both moved exactly the same – ducked and rolled out – Liquid grabbing Snake's expended SOCOM and Snake grabbing Liquid's AK. The three of them stopped again, all holding weapons – only Snake knowing that Liquid didn't have any ammo. Spectral sighed and laughed. "You just won't let me kill you." Liquid and Snake looked at each other, their feelings the same: Who the hell was this guy?

And then, pulling the triggers of his SOCOMs, Snake and Liquid both sprinted in opposite directions – making for the two swinging doors that stood at each end of the room. "I'll follow you!" Spectral cried as they went. He turned his SOCOMs on Liquid and fired twice. The second time he tore into his ankle and sent him flying forward, sliding along the floor through the swinging doors. Snake turned to look over his shoulder once, watching Liquid disappear behind the doors. And then, leaving aswell, he heard Spectral cry out again. "You will die where you were born! Your cradle will be your grave!"

When they had both gone Spectral slowly made his way to one of the doorways and evaporated into the air.


	32. The Selfish Gene

chapter THIRTY-TWO: The Selfish Gene

_"The A: Objective had been and integral part of the Cold War, but one largely unrecognized by the public. Only well-off government officials had any knowledge of the on-goings, but there was a whole history to the Cold War that the public would never know. Stories that founded relationships and the state of the world today were largely due to some of the things that happened in the A: Objective. In fact, one of the most important pieces in the puzzle of the Snake clones was derived there. Something that would answer a lot."_

~*~

Liquid struggled to stand, his leg defiant and the blood running steadfastly from his ankle. The bullet had shaved one side of his bone and torn through his tendons. The pain was unbelievable, but he steadied himself, his weight lying predominantly on the uninjured leg, and went as quickly as he could down the hall. It was new to him, but as he went along something seemed familiar. The lights or the walls or the sound his footsteps made. Something about the environment struck him as nostalgic.

Through the swinging doors came Spectral, his pace slow and calm. Liquid heard him coming up from behind and tried to move quicker, but his ankle would not allow it. Instead, he continued to hobble, sweat beading on his forehead, hair sticking to his skin. His heart was beating wildly, but he managed to remain cool on the outside. Not once did he, frightened, turn his head over his shoulder to check where Spectral was, but even if he had he would only see the still air, the same hall, and the trail of blood that seeped from his ankle still. 

And so, as Spectral began to taunt him with words, he did not go any slower or faster. He kept his pace, stomached the pain, and made the grip on his SOCOM firm. "You're injured," he said, his voice so similar to Snake's. Though it could never be seen, he wore a crooked grin as he followed Liquid, simply walking after his prey. "I would have gotten father, but…he really should come last. You, on the other hand – how could I pass up the opportunity?"

Liquid didn't try to understand. All he wanted was to leave this hallway alive and see Snake again. Their duel had been interrupted. He wanted to finish.

Squeezing once more on the handle of his SOCOM, he let his legs collapse and turned as he fell down through the air. His SOCOM aimed somewhere behind him and, frantically, he unloaded it in that direction. Shot after shot – crack after crack – only the softened walls felt the impact, exploding as each bullet dug a hole in it. And when the ammo was expended, his grip loosening and the gun dropping onto the floor, he felt the cold touch of a gun press against his forehead. But Spectral was invisible, still.

"I think you would be 'uncle' to me," Spectral began. "Technically, you're not really, but Snake isn't 'technically' my father, either." Liquid swallowed and tried to put on a resistant smile, something to show Spectral that he didn't care what happened. But, all that showed was a sour cringe and a slight confusion in the arch of his eyebrows. "I came from a tube just like you, or…maybe not _just_ like you. The methods of the United States are far more refined than those that the Soviets used when you became."

"Isn't it so strange that you will die here? Ironic, almost."

And then, there was a gun shot.

~*~

Snake busted through the swinging doors, running as fast as his legs would allow. He thought briefly of what he had last seen of Liquid – his ankle imbedded with lead, his dive through the doors on the opposite side of the room. He was weakened now. He could take care of him quickly. But Spectral was somewhere. Surely, though, he would be after Liquid as well.

When Snake came to the same intersection of halls, where he and Liquid had first run into each other, he turned down the right hallway and sprinted, AK still in the crook of his right arm and his finger still weighing slightly on the trigger.

Everything went by so quickly – too quickly for him to think or to watch. He had to reach Liquid before Spectral did. He had to.

At the next intersection he turned right again and started down that hall. It ran parallel to the one he had come down after exiting the storage room. This hall was connected to the doors Liquid had come out of. He noticed this, was sure of this, when he heard the voices somewhere ahead, and as soon as he heard them he ducked and laid flat on his stomach. The poor lighting was to his advantage – he could see them, but they could hardly see him, no light overtop of him.

Liquid was crumpled on the floor, his head up and facing the opposite direction, a stillness to his awkward stature that meant he wasn't still down because it was the best vantage point he could find to defend himself. Snake's SOCOM was discarded by his side. This was bad news to Snake.

"I think you would be 'uncle' to me," he heard Spectral say. Slowly, he crawled closer, remembering to stay in the dimmest light. "Technically, you're not really, but Snake isn't 'technically' my father, either." Snake realized how much he hated hearing Spectral speak when he mentioned him in his words. Mentioned him with that voice that was his own. That voice, that face, that person – all stolen from him.

"I came from a tube just like you, or…maybe not _just like you. The methods of the United States are far more refined than those that the Soviets used when you became." And at that, Snake was angry. He was furious. All that he could see in his mind was the strand of DNA he had found on the computer in the first wing of Trinket, the face of Spectral staring into his eyes and calling him father, the scene of Liquid tumbling through the swinging doors and fighting to stand._

"Isn't it so strange that you will die here? Ironic, almost." And at that very moment Snake sprung off of the floor and raised his AK high, aiming it just above Liquid's head. But, before he could press down on the trigger he felt something pull at his right shoulder and then he felt a slice of pain and a cracking of bone and then – after all that – he heard a SOCOM blast from ahead.

When he winced, his arm failing on him, Spectral appeared ahead of Liquid and Liquid ducked, swung out his uninjured leg, and kicked him off his feet and into the air. As Snake moved the AK into his left arm, the pain destroying his right, Liquid made to stand and Spectral fell heavily on his back, the first of his two SOCOMs falling out of his hand.

Snake took aim, Spectral looked at him in surprise and in horror, and Liquid grabbed the SOCOM Spectral had dropped and held it on his face. Snake and Liquid both looked at each other and then at Spectral.

"Take the other one," Snake said to Liquid, who then pulled the second SOCOM from Spectral's holster and aimed it, also, at his face.                      

"Why are you calling me 'father'?" Snake began, his glare stinging like the bullet in his arm. Spectral didn't struggle, just laid there on his back and laughed a little. Then, composing himself, he answered with the same gruffness as Snake, a smile on his face.

"Well, you see – it's actually very interesting."

~*~

"Here's something," Dennis said, pulling a file out of one of the file cabinets and laying it on his lap as he took a seat by the desk with the single computer terminal. Opening it and sifting through the papers inside, his eyes grew heavy and burdened. There was something there.

Looking up at Desperado, he nodded, and Desperado pulled out his cell phone.

~*~

Fox and Brant had fit headsets over their ears and had taken seats in the main room, sitting before the control panel and watching the television screens and computer monitors as the Red Shirts went about their work. The fat man and the reasonable man came up from behind and tapped Fox on the shoulder. Both of them turned around in their chairs and pulled the headsets from their ears.

"We ran up your backgrounds – didn't find much on you," the reasonable one said, nodding to Fox who smiled and nodded.

"You shouldn't," he answered.

"Regardless, you're allowed to use any of our resources to keep in contact and to command Solid Snake in Trinket. We've been trying to reach Raiden for some time now, but he hasn't been responding. Before you go through with anything, though, run it by the two of us. We've been dealing with Trinket for the past three days – gathering background, doing anything we could to get an idea as to what our man is going through. Just so happened, your guy ended up at the same place."

"You were working with Raiden?" Fox asked. The reasonable one nodded.

"For the past year or so, yes. Good kid. You know him?"

"We've had a couple of run-ins in the past," Fox smiled. The reasonable man nodded and the fat man, seemingly impatient or annoyed, grunted. That was the exact moment Brant's cell phone started ringing.

Most of the room fell silent as he pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open. Pressing it to his ear and waiting for the connection to take, he said cautiously: "Hello?"

~*~

The information is blurred here. Sources have told varying stories, usually throwing in too much insight to make good sense. The way that it happened, though, was simpler than it seemed. Desperado lifted the file from Dennis' lap and started reading over the phone.

_"During the A: Objective the __United States__ was in a state of heightened alert. Troubles with __Cuba__ were beginning to ignite. The Cold War was growing tense. And behind enemy lines the A: Objective was being carried out without the public informed. Everything was secret. Nothing was supposed to get out._

_"There  was a young member of the __United States__ military. His abilities were tempered to the extreme and he was believed, by many, to be one of the most refined soldiers in the military. When men were picked for the A: Objective he was one of the first to go up on the list._

_"In the winter of 1964 he went into action. He was given an alias, the proper passports, all the fake background he needed to get along in a new world. When he was flown over to __Russia__ he landed in Noril'sk and set up a life for himself. He spent three years building a structure for his life. In 1967 he heard from the __United States__._

_"He had a target – it was Trinket._

_"Two months after hearing from the States he received more detailed information on the facility's whereabouts, the on-goings within its walls, and the actual blueprints. He had everything he needed at that point and after a few weeks of preparation and of studying the blueprints and memorizing the guard posts and their tendencies he was ready to go in._

_"What is believed and accepted by most is that on the night of __February 5th, 1968_ – some reports estimated in the earlier days of January or the later days of February – he entered the facility and found evidence of something the ___United States__ had been trying to find information on for quite some time. Within Trinket he found experiments in nuclear energy, psychokinetic control, mind-reading, chemical and biological warfare, advanced missile launching systems, surveillance mechanisms, and cloning._

_"He took pictures, imprinted what he couldn't fit onto a camera in his brain, and made to leave. Before he had made it back to the first floor of the building he was caught and captured._

_"He dropped off the edge of the earth. __Russia__ was outraged, but they couldn't speak of it without alighting rumors about Trinket and what was housed there. They kept quite, but raised the stakes on the international scale. They were ready to go to war with the __United States__._

_"Something funny about all this was that they never knew that the man came from the __United States__ at all. He didn't carry anything that would lead him back there and he never spoke up about it. All they had were the initials of his full Russian alias – K.I.N.G._

_"No more than two weeks later another American  man, one also living in Noril'sk, one who had come to Russia three weeks after KING and started a life for himself under a fake identification, was contacted by U.S. officials and given detailed information on a young Spetsnaz employed at Trinket as a guard. He was the only son of a retired but highly-respected GRU member who had also settled at Trinket and currently ran the security of the facility. The GRU member was called General Ivan. His son was Shalashaska – and would also carry his father's name in his later years. And the other American man went by Desperado – a title assigned to him while he was serving in the __United States__ military."_

By this time in the telling, Desperado had strayed away from what was on the paper before him and began speaking exactly how he remembered it. His voice was detached, his gaze straight ahead or shuttered by his closed eyelids. His hand hardly gripped the phone.

"Sometime in March I met with Ocelot. He wasn't fit for a Spetsnaz – at least not yet. When we spoke he was cocky and foolish. His old man's popularity had boosted him up on a pedestal, explaining his rank as Spetsnaz. My objective was to get Big Boss – KING, whatever you want to call him – out of Russian hands. The government wanted to know what was happening inside that base. They wanted it bad."

_"The American agent Desperado worked a deal with Shalashaska. In return for fifty thousand U.S. dollars, money Desperado had been awarded for negotiation purposes from the __United States__, Shalashaska insured that KING would be released. Two nights later the two met again at the same place."_

"Ocelot was calm. Big Boss, on the other hand, looked hardly alive. His face was swollen, cuts up and down his cheeks. There was blood smeared everywhere that his skin would show. He was mostly hidden under a heavy coat I imagine Ocelot gave to him. I was apprehensive of the trade, but took Big Boss and handed over the money." Desperado closed his eyes and sighed.

"Ocelot and I didn't talk for another thirty years. I got Big Boss back to the States – we were both pulled out of Russia and returned immediately. I got my old home and the government got their old hero – and an outline of Trinket in its entirety. He was even responsible for information on the star project going on over there…Metal Gear. The old guy had it all up in his head – never said a word to the Russian interrogators, just kept running everything through his mind.

"He didn't turn out so great, I guess, but he was a fighter. When he saw that Gear he fell in love. He wanted to go back all along – he wanted it for the longest time. And I'm willing to bet that he hasn't changed a bit."

~*~

"There was more, though," Spectral choked. He was still on his back, three guns aimed at him. Snake stepped closer, kneeling beside him and speaking quietly into his ear. "Why don't you tell us, then?" he asked, and Spectral winced, his body wanting to lash out and strangle Snake and Liquid at the same time, but his better judgment sustaining him.

"After a few days interrogations seemed useless. They weren't going to get anything out of him. No names, no places, no plans – nothing. He was keeping quiet and that wasn't going to change." Spectral was speaking slowly, as if trying to stall for backup, but all three of them knew that none were coming. "So they inducted him and threw him into one of their 'experiments.'

"At the time, cloning was a subject that was gathering a lot of interest. It was considered impossible by most, but so many things happened here that no one could have dreamed possible. The powers that be in America knew that something was happening here. They knew that they were years behind in research and development for technological industries when compared to the Soviet Union. And so, they stole for it. They sent the Boss over and got what they could – but Russia got a little trinket from it as well."

Snake was growing tired of waiting – waiting for Spectral to finish, but stood by, anticipating the resolve. And then Spectral sighed and then grinned. 

"Russia got you."

"The Russian method for cloning was archaic at best. In fact, it required what was known as the Selfish Gene. The Boss happened to have just that. Bodies of those dead or alive were drained of their blood and preserved for the experiment. Small amounts of the Boss' blood – and the DNA that was crystallized within it and every other fiber of his body – were transferred to nearly thirty of these pre-preserved bodies. That was all that they needed. The Selfish Gene did the rest.

"In theory this gene had the ability to spawn from itself, building a duplicate and taking control of whatever it inhabited. It worked through the corpses quickly, building an entire nervous system, organs, cells, veins, a brain, and even remodeling the physical attributes of that person. Almost thirty of these 'shells' were brought to life, but only three of them survived the resurgence. I'll leave it up to put that one together.

"According to sciences investigating the Selfish Gene, it would continue to duplicate, but would, in some instances, never produce an exact replica. The results of the Boss' cloning were unique in that one subject did come out bearing the exact same DNA as the Boss. Only one.

"Two of you were more like flukes – your DNA was so similar that only extensive research could find you false. The third – that was the cream of the crop. A success of science and of theory and of ideals. Which one of you might that be?"

Snake jumped forward, grabbing at Spectral's throat and pressing the barrel of the AK against his temple. There was a fierceness in his gaze, a savage brutality captured in the glaze of his eyes. "Who the hell is it?!" he hollered. Liquid had stepped back, but was watching intently. "You know! Which one?!" Spectral looked him in the eye calmly, but seemed disturbed by Snake's reaction. He didn't expect to see that from him.

"The obvious answer has been in front of you forever!" Spectral said. "You should know this all ready. You should know it!" Just then, the dim lights overhead began to flicker and die out, their tint changing when they blinked back on. The hall was set aflame with flashing red bulbs, a siren sounding and the intercom calling to anyone who could hear it.

With an automated voice – one distorted and mismatched – the message was made sound: "Metal Gear Activating...Resources Loading…All Units Stand-by…Evacuate Test Field." Snake looked sharply at Liquid and then turned back to Spectral. "They're activating it all ready?!"

Spectral shrugged his shoulders. "They're crazy enough, aren't they?" Liquid swooped down and pulled Spectral onto his feet. Snake stepped back and looked down the hallway. "Though it doesn't make sense," Spectral continued, calling Liquid and Snake's attention back to him. "I didn't think they had the means to activate it yet. But…no," he said, for the first time showing disbelief, for the first time showing sign of humanity. "Either shoot me, let me go, or follow me, because if we're not there soon we're all as good as dead."

"What do you mean?" Snake questioned, and Spectral looked at him, stepping a little closer and staring deeply into his eyes.

"I have a duty to uphold here, and if you don't let me take care of it then we are all going to die. Simple." Snake and Liquid looked at each other. "All Units Stand-by…Evacuate Test Field…Metal Gear Activating…"

"Fine," Snake said, grabbing Spectral harshly by the arm. "Lead the way. And don't slow us down."

And with that, Snake, Liquid, and Spectral all started swiftly down the hall, the lights still flashing red, the voice still sounding dully. And as they ran, both of them thought they had that gene in them. And both of them wished they didn't. But whoever had it, it was beyond their control.

The Selfish Gene chose them. It was not the other way around.

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: Whelp, I'm trying to keep up here. There are probably only four chapters left – maybe three. Some more questions will be answered in the next one, and I expect some fun __Moscow__ action with Otacon. There's a lot to cover and not much time to do it. I said it many chapters ago, but I will say it again (and this time I REALLY mean it) – we are into the best stuff now. The climaxes are coming – and coming fast.                                                                                                                                    ~ espresso_


	33. Contact

chapter THIRTY-THREE: Contact

_"By the time contact with Trinket was regained, the clock was all ready ticking. The situation was ready to explode, and Metal Gear was ready for a test-drive. It seemed the whole world was on the brink of destruction. Everything that had happened in the last fifty years had led to this day – to this mission. But, this wasn't like Shadow Moses or the Tanker or the Big Shell or Hell's Outpost or the FACtion Incident. This mission extended beyond the battlefield. It was now a war for the nation."_

~*~

Otacon was still standing by the window, looking out over the streets. There was a weight in his stomach. He hadn't spoken to Raiden in a couple of hours. He remembered, then, that he cut out just after reporting that Snake had died.

He had nearly forgotten – not really forgotten, but the pain had faded for a moment. Raiden had requested that he tell the President of Snake's death, but he had not yet made contact with him. He was afraid to. For now it was secret. For now he could try and tell himself that Raiden had placed his words wrong, or seen something that wasn't true. For now he could lie. But once it was no longer a secret, once the President knew, it would be true. Once the word was out, Snake would be dead after all.

Otacon sniffled, blinking his eyes to press out a couple lingering tears, and wiped his face dry with a tattered piece of cloth, its ends slightly frayed. Nastasha still stood behind him in the doorway, a little worried that he wasn't holding together. She couldn't have him break apart like this. She could understand what it was like to lose someone close, but Snake had always managed to get past it. He put his emotions aside when he needed to. He got the job done.

"Otacon?" Nastasha began. He didn't do anything – just continued to stare out that window. "When are you going call?" Still no reaction. "The President needs to know. You knew this was the plan from the beginning. Snake had to go."

Otacon squeezed the cloth in his hand and turned desperately toward Nastasha, tears lighting up on his cheeks. "Snake can't die. Don't you know that? He's Snake…he's a legend. Legends don't die…he wont."

Nastasha watched him as his fist clenched the cloth in his hand and as his glasses slipped down to the point of his nose. He was shaking. She hated seeing him this way, hated to think that Snake was gone, hated to know that Otacon would now feel wholly responsible.

"I'm calling the President," she said, and she left the room, closing the door on Otacon. He just stood there by the window and watched the streets and the people as a tiny shred of light broke through the barrier of gray clouds and filtered through the window, falling into the room.

Nastasha, who held the phone to her ear in the next room, heard the door open behind her. When she turned she saw Otacon standing before her, his face still damp but no longer sopping. The cloth was tucked in his brown jacket pocket and his glasses were straight on his nose.

"I'll call," he said.

~*~

Fox and Brant sat before the monitors and the control panels. They wore headsets, but were not speaking. They both sat idly in their chairs, facing the monitors head-on. The rest of the room was bustling with activity. Folders and twelve-page reports paper-clipped in the top left corners were being passed back and forth, faces checked, background work being done. While the fat man, the moderate man, and both Fox and Brant were dealing with the situation in Trinket the rest of the people were concerning themselves with the START3 signing. They had lists of names and photo sheets, long character descriptions and criminal records. Everyone who had a record was highlighted for surveillance. They weren't letting anything get through on a day like this.

Fox looked over just as Brant had adjusted his headset and pressed his index and middle fingers lightly to his ear. Brant was determined to get a hold on Snake, but Fox wasn't as hopeful. He turned again to face the monitors, their bright colors shining around him and turning his shape into a silhouette from behind. Just then, Brant's eyes lit up and he sat straight in his chair.

"Oh shit," Brant said, quite suddenly. Fox waited a moment, his reaction delayed, before turning his neck and looking plainly on Brant. Neither of them spoke for a few more seconds, but Brant eventually opened his mouth again and laughed a little. Then, turning to face Fox, he smiled. "I've got Snake on the line."

~*~

Snake heard the ringing in his ears and quickly, as if a new memory had returned to him – that of Brant's involvement in all this – his fingers snapped to his ear. "Hello?" he said, his voice stressed and urgent all of a sudden. The red lights were still flashing as he, Liquid, and Spectral all turned right at the end of the hallway.

There was a moment's hesitation on the other end. "Snake?" Brant said in disbelief. He hadn't expected an answer this time – or any of the other times he'd tried.

"Damn, Brant," Snake smiled, "I forgot all about you." With those words a terrible weight was lifted off of Brant's chest. He'd not heard that voice in a long time – too long. But, after another moment he noticed the loud voice crackling over the speakers and the incessant cry of the sirens.

"What the hell is going on over there?" Brant said.

"Metal Gear is active," Snake answered. Grim.

~*~

Brant jumped out of his chair, tossed his headset to the floor, and hurried into the next room where he and Fox had been questioned earlier. The walls were still wet from leaks in the ceiling and the light did not erase the darkness, but instead defined it. Everyone in the main room had taken notice to his departure and Fox followed after him, pressing his hand to his own ear and the conversation bursting into his eardrums.

"Active?!" Brant cried. Fox knew what they were talking about right away.

"Snake, it's Fox. Good to have you back on board."

"Thanks, Jaeger," Snake smiled again. Knowing Fox was still helping out was always a good feeling.

"What's this about Metal Gear being active all of a sudden?" Fox pursued.

"I'm not exactly sure how they pulled it off, but a whole lot has happened in the last few hours that you should know about."

"What about Raiden?" This voice was a new one. In the doorway stood the moderate man, his fingers also pressed to his ear. "How's the kid?"

The mention of Raiden brought a silence to Snake's lips, a cold touch of ice to his heart. But, squeezing his fist once and looking foully on Spectral, he brought himself to answer.

"Raiden's dead."

The moderate man in the doorway didn't seem to react at all, just stood there as straight as he had before. Fox, however, seemed amazed by the crumbling cellar walls all of a sudden, losing himself in their complexity. Brant cleared his throat.

"How did it happen?" the moderate man asked.  
  
"Two bullets – one in each shoulder. He bled to death," Snake said solemnly. It was at that moment that he remembered Spectral was partly responsible for his partner's death, and as the feeling swelled up inside him and boiled in his stomach, he didn't know why they were working alongside each other. "And I met a friend," he added, referring to Spectral with a disgusting tone.

Brant looked quizzically at the moderate man in the doorway. "What friend?" he asked. "Are you with someone now?" Snake almost laughed. That very moment he was hurrying down a hall with Liquid Snake and Spectral Snake – two 'relatives' that Brant and Fox and all of the Red Shirts had not heard news of in a very long time, one of which they didn't even know existed.

~*~

The President sat idly in his chair. The phone was on the desk beside him. His door was closed. The jet was largely quiet. There was no sound, no movement from the halls outside. Many of those on board were catching up on their sleep or trying to look nice for the signing. Of course, none of them would be seen, but that didn't matter so much. They would be in the presence of two presidents and that called for them to be in their best attire. Today was a big day.

"Mr. President?" There was a knock on the door. The President, his eyes half-closed, didn't bother to adjust his stature, just remained slouched down in the chair and nodded to no one in particular. "Come on in."

In stepped the same agent who had been speaking with the President earlier. He closed the door behind him and made his way to the center of the room, stopping there and turning to face the President.

"Mr. Emmerich is on the phone for you, sir," he said carefully. His voice was strangely delicate, forming the words cautiously on his tongue. It was clear to the President that Otacon's message would be a disappointing one. Whether anyone really knew what he had to say or not – that sixth sense remained tugging at his stomach, apprehension and nerves biting along his skin. "We put him on line three," the man continued before going back to the door, glancing over his shoulder to see the President's reaction, and then stepping outside.

The President waited for him to leave before he made any movements. As soon as the door shut he sat up in his chair and leaned over his desk. The red phone was there, as well as another cream-colored one. A light was glowing green above the number '3'. The President lightly gripped the receiver in his hand and lifted it to his ear. He held it there, just like that, for a number of minutes before he finally pressed the number 3 and took a large breath.

"Hello Otacon."

"Hello, Mr. President. How's the flight?" Otacon's voice seemed broken, but only slightly.

"It's...fine." He waited a while. "Do you have any news for me?"

Otacon didn't want to answer. He thought about hanging up or saying 'no,' but Nastasha stood over his shoulder. He had to tell him. He couldn't keep it a secret any longer.

"Snake is dead, sir." His voice cut off abruptly after that, a lump forming in his throat and tears searing his cheeks. He sniffed and wiped his cheeks. The President sat up a little straighter, his eyes sharpening with sudden interest.

"Was it Spectral?" The President asked.

"I'm not sure, sir. I haven't been able to contact Raiden since then." It was hard for him to keep talking. He wanted to hang up and close himself in the next room.

"You can't get in touch with him?" the President asked. Why had communication failed? Maybe…he'd been killed. "Otacon, I need you to do everything in your power to contact Raiden, and as soon as you do I want you to call me. I want to know who took out Snake." There was an excitement and a fierceness in the President's voice now. The news of Snake's death had moved him to action. His heart was beating furiously, his palms beginning to sweat. There was a reason to be awake now, a reason to be alert. He had to understand how this had happened.

"I understand, sir," Otacon said, and sniffed again. The President didn't wait any longer to hang up the phone, and as soon as he had the familiar agent knocked on the door and strode back into the room. He looked concerned, a graveness in his voice when he spoke.

"What did he tell you?" he asked, and the President pushed his chair aside and stood, eye-to-eye with the agent. He smiled brightly, then, and straightened his tie and patted down his shirt.

"I need to speak to Simon."

~*~

"You're with Liquid?!" Brant cried. As soon as Snake had told them, Fox had stood and kicked his chair away. Memories of the hateful clone came back to him now.

"What're you thinking?" Fox said.

"There's more than that, though," Snake said. "Brant, do you remember the DNA traces Mei Ling was trying to dissect – the strand I'd found in the Cold Bay?"

"Yea, Snake. What about them?"

"That's my DNA, just like you had suspected. It looks like the Russians knew a lot more about genetics than we did back in the Cold War…when they captured Big Boss." Brant was confused. "During the Cold War Big Boss was a part of the A: Objective. He infiltrated Trinket and got nabbed on the way out. And, according to what I've been told, his captors were responsible for breeding Liquid and Solidus and myself. We weren't products of the United States government."

"What?" Brant said. "Why would the government claim they created you if they did not?"

"I'm not quite sure. I'll have to get back with you on that," Snake answered.

"Who's the informant you're working with?" Brant continued.

"Another Snake, it seems – goes by Spectral. He says I'm his old man." Snake waited a moment and thought to add that it was Spectral who had hit Raiden with the first shot, but he merely grunted and let the memory slide under the layers of his mind. He wouldn't mention it to the others. Not now, at least.

"I'd stay away from him, Snake," Fox said. "That or kill him."

Snake laughed. "Yea, I'll just kill him then."

"Snake…what're you doing this for? Why are you working with them?"

"Spectral knows something and his word is going to help us stop Metal Gear. And Liquid – well, I don't know about him yet. He hasn't taken any firm sides since he woke up." Snake had told them about the Perfect Cell, and how it had been used on both Liquid and himself.

"Just because he has had some time to reconsider, doesn't mean he's switching sides, Snake." Fox hunched over the table and closed his eyes. "This – you're crazy, Snake. Absolutely insane."

Snake just laughed a little, that coarse scratch running through his voice, looked briefly at Liquid and Spectral, and smiled cockily. "I always thought that was one of my best qualities."

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello, fans. I'm so very sorry that I haven't updated in such a long time. I hope this was a slightly enjoyable chapter, at any rate. I know not much happened, but it's starting to move along I think. The next two or three chapters should be exciting. Oh, and if you had forgotten who Simon was – the man the President wants to speak to – that was Desperado's real name (or the one by which he is formally addressed). At any rate, I need to go back and read the last few chapters so that I have it all straight in my mind – then, I'll get the next chapter up. I would suggest, if you are really into these stories, to read over a lot of King's Company before reading further. It will probably help you remember some things._

_But for now - only a little bit left guys and gals!!! YAY!!_


	34. Radio Silence

chapter THIRTY-FOUR: Radio Silence

_"Security in __Moscow__ for START 3 would be heavy. It had been planned and agreed to by both governments involved that security would be equal from both forces. __Russia__ was allowed as many security agents as the __United States__. However, it seemed as if such a precaution was a wary indication of START 3's importance. Neither of the nations trusted each other fully, but it would only get worse. And with the situation at Trinket growing out of control, along with the situation in __Washington__D.C.__, there was no safe bet that everything would go as planned. If it got called off, even, it wouldn't be such a big surprise, really. Pretending that everything was all right between the __US__ and __Russia__ was a foolish thing to do."_

~*~

Desperado's cell phone started ringing.

"Hello?" he asked, standing and walking from the room of computers and file cabinets to the wide unfurnished living spaces. He had left his jacket in the other room. He was wearing a nice button-up, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a faint scar etched up his forearm from a nameless mission some unimportant number of years ago. Tied at his waist was the chain of a silver pocket watch that disappeared into his pocket. "Hello?" he said again.

"Mr. West, we're connecting you with the President," a faceless voice said. It had the universal monotone of the president's security staff, and could not be mistaken as anything but a secret service agent. A few moments later, after Desperado thought of how they had tracked down his cell phone signal, there was a beep and then complete silence on the other line. It was another thirty seconds before a second beep sounded and the rattling of a receiver could be heard.

"Simon." It was the President. There was no mistaking him. He wasn't like the faceless secret service agents.

"Mr. President," Desperado said warmly but formally. "How is the flight?"

"It's been surprisingly eventful, which I regret a great deal. I am told that we touch down in a matter of hours – maybe three or four. But, anyway, how are things on the homestead?" He was smiling to himself, standing before the two phones – the cream one that he was using, and the red one.

"Eventful – just like you said." Desperado was careful placing his words. He wasn't sure what he should reveal to the President at this point. It was hard to keep the truth, however.

"Simon…have you spoken at all with Moore, today?"

Desperado leaned against one of the walls for a moment and tried to deny it, but he couldn't bring himself to say 'no.' Nervous energy bubbled under his skin and he pressed off the wall and began pacing, sweat beading at his brow. "I have."

"Has he seemed strange to you at all?"

"No, sir," he said quickly, hoping that if he got the words out fast enough he wouldn't have time to feel as if he was doing something terribly wrong by lying.

"Hmm. I spoke with him on the phone not long ago. He didn't seem quite himself." The President wanted Desperado to break here and begin talking, but Desperado said nothing at all. "Have you heard any news regarding Trinket in the past several hours?"

"No, sir," Desperado said, lying again. "Aren't you in command of the situation?"

"Well yes, of course, but I'm only here to say 'yay' or 'nay' to particularly extreme courses of action. I've not spoken with the leader of the operation since I boarded the plane."

"I understand, sir," Desperado said, still pacing. He kept quiet for a moment longer, but the President was unable to carry on the conversation without being truthful. There were certain things he needed to know, and Desperado was not going to tell him unless he made it clear that it was safe to speak further on the subject of Trinket and Alex Moore. And, so, he did.

"I realize that you must know what's happening, Simon. You're no fool, and I'm fully aware of your connections with Joseph Brant and Solid Snake. You know what's happening in Trinket better than I do. Alex has made a point of putting me in my place – and that puts me outside of the circle. Sitting on a plane, I don't have much control over the situation. I spoke with the Russian president a couple of hours ago and he sent Spetsnaz to the base to kill the commotion. Do you have any idea what has happened since then?"

Desperado felt uncomfortable discussing this so suddenly, but he had heard some things that the President would, undoubtedly, like to know. "A lot has happened since you left. The FOX-HOUND safe house was turned upside down. One of the agents in FOX-HOUND was apparently working on another's behalf. All agents besides Brant were killed, but the traitor got away."

"Who was it?" The President asked. He was very insistent.

"A man named Lexus. And, though I'm sorry to inform you, he was working under the command of the director of the NSA."

"William Beck," the President said slowly and softly. "That's no surprise. The bastard has been supportive of Alex ever since we moved into the White House. He's always thought of me as trite – not special enough for the office. I wouldn't have expected for him to act so rashly, though." The President thought for a moment. "What else has happened?"

This was the hardest part. He'd been afraid that it would come up eventually, the subject of his allegiance with the Vice President and his halfway-completed mission to knock off supporters of the President. He had hoped that it would never surface, that it would remain a secret, but he knew that it couldn't. It would come out eventually, and it would better for the President if he knew immediately. It was the right thing to do.

But he couldn't do it.

"Brant and a man named Frank Jaeger were pursued by the NSA, but managed to hide themselves. I contacted a supporter of yours and uncovered a little safe house in Charleston."

"The Red Shirts," the President said fondly. "They're a good group of guys. I've been in touch with one of their agents throughout the day. You should know him pretty well." The President was fully aware of the relationship the two had. "He goes by Otacon."

Something leapt in Desperado's chest. He hadn't spoken to Otacon in too long.

"He…gave me some unfortunate news, though. I talked to him just a moment ago, and it seems Solid Snake has…died."

Desperado didn't know. He didn't know what to think, what to do, what to say. He just didn't know. Dead? How could Snake be dead? He was a legend and legends didn't die. "Otacon told you this?"

"Yes," the President said sadly. "I'm sorry. Very sorry, in fact. I'm not exactly sure what's going to happen at Trinket, now. With him gone, and with Raiden unable to be contacted…"

Raiden's silence was also news to Desperado. What was going on?

"This has been the strangest day all ready. And all of it now – with START 3…it's terrible," the President rubbed his forehead. It _was terrible. Nothing was making any sense anymore. The whole world was falling apart and the President was drifting through the clouds without any control over the situation. Half the government had turned on him anyway. And any attempt to shut down the Vice President would jeopardize START 3._

"Sir, I need you to answer a question – one I've been meaning to ask for a very long time. It's out of line, but at this point I don't really care what's fair game and what's not." Desperado took a short breath and the President hardened his appearance even though no one was there to see him. "Two years ago when I took out Snake – what was that about? What were you using him for?"

"Simon," the President hesitated, chuckling to himself, "that's high-security information. I can't tell you those sorts of things."

"Sir, you heard what I said. I haven't been playing by the rules for this entire day and I'm not starting now. Snake is dead, and I think that had something to do with it. Ever since then he's been forced straight to Trinket. It was you who took over the mission and assigned him to it. You wanted him there, specifically, and now he's dead." He paused for just one moment. "So, tell me, Mr. President. What was the tanker about two years ago?"

"I want you to know right now, that I'm still ashamed of what I did and the reason for which I did it," the President said, being entirely truthful. "But, I couldn't try and change it after it was put in motion."

"Go on," Desperado said.

"A little over two years ago I passed a plan from the NSA regarding Solid Snake. People at National Security knew that Snake played a large role in anti-terrorism, and had been loyal and upstanding – as upstanding as a one-man army could be, that is – for the past several years. But, as it is no secret to you or me, he's getting older…and…the NSA didn't like that. They wanted to keep him young, but that was obviously impossible. But there were other methods that weren't quite so 'impossible.' The NSA proposed the possibility of cloning Solid Snake. So, that's what they did. I put David Springfield on the team, because Alex had recommended him to the position, and he pulled you onboard. You did the dirty work, and Snake woke up a year later with his memory clean – everything following his capture was lost. He was held in a government prison and was then released to work with FOX-HOUND."

Desperado was appalled, but let the President continue.

"The NSA wasn't satisfied with the clone, though. They were not ready to accept that it was on par with any of the Snakes. And so, they wanted to test him. We set Solid Snake on the path to Trinket, and that was where it was all supposed to come together. I released Big Boss from confinement, and he was ushered to Trinket. Then, we helped get Liquid's body along to them, along with Solidus', and with the magic of the Perfect Cell they were up and walking again – or, so, that's how the plan was supposed to go. I'm not entirely sure whether or not it has proceeded as such, but sometime later Snake was to arrive. And then, we would set the clone loose and watch what happened.

"And now, Snake is dead. But, I've not heard from Spectral," the President ended.

"Spectral? Is that the new Snake?" Desperado asked.

"That's right," the President answered. There was a bit of shame in his voice, but he had not been destroyed through telling this. "But, more happened that night than I am allowed to know. I don't believe that Springfield was a reliable agent. He and Alex had worked closely over the years, and with Alex's hatred of me exposed, I cannot help but doubt Springfield's character. I am beginning to fear that they led one more onto that boat…" There was a very real fear in his voice, a dark and cold concern.

"Revolver Ocelot," Desperado said in quiet disbelief.

"Moments before the operation was given the go command several department heads met with Alex in a conference room – including William Beck of the NSA. And after our little briefing this morning, I began to worry. If Ocelot is not truly dead, then I see no reason for him to pass up the opportunity of reuniting with the old gang at Trinket. He and Snake have had unfinished business since Shadow Moses."

Desperado closed his eyes and shook his head. He had known hardly any of this just minutes ago. So much had happened that he'd never been told, and so much was happening at that very moment that he could not possibly know. Everything seemed so distant.

"Simon, I need you to keep a very close eye on Alex. If he does anything crazy, call me back. The number should show up on your phone. It would normally be blocked for security purposes, but I let it run through. Oh, hold on just a moment –" he said, as a door opened. There was silence for a few moments and then he came back on. "Simon…why are you calling from that house? You don't have clearance to the information there."

"Like I said, sir, I've been breaking a lot of rules today. But, I'll keep an eye on Alex, and if I hear anything new I'll call."

"Good," the President said, smiling to himself. "Stay safe, Simon. Watch yourself."

"You too, sir. I'll talk with you later." And with a muffled grunt from the President and a click, the conversation ended. Desperado slowly closed the phone and dropped it into his pocket with his pocket watch. He could not believe that Snake had died – most of all, that his role in capturing him two years ago had played one of the biggest parts in his death. Damn, how could he have turned his own friend over to the government? He remembered the joke Snake had made when they'd stood on the roof of a building in Manhattan so many years ago, and when Desperado had revealed that he was an agent of the President's private staff. 

_"I have a friend who is part of the __U.S.__ government," Snake said with a laugh. "I didn't know that sort of thing could happen."_

~*~

Otacon was gathering up some things from a table in the small room filled with computers and wires.

Nastasha stood in the doorway and watched as he sifted through the piles of junk that littered the room. They had set up in the apartment a little over two weeks ago to prepare, but they couldn't show their faces in public for fear of eventually being identified as agents of the President's semi-secret security organization, watched over by the Red Shirts. Whatever involvement they would have in the START 3 signing could not be tracked back to them. If something went wrong and they were positively identified, they could be imprisoned – or worse. So, for the last two weeks they had piled trash in their apartment to avoid traversing the streets and exposing themselves to the ever watching eyes of the government.

Today, however, was a single exception. Today, they would be the last line of security at the START 3 signing. They would be representing the Red Shirts in Moscow, assigned to keep an eye on any questionable attendants of the signing or anything like that. And, to remain familiar with the layout of the building where it would be signed, Otacon had to scope it out prior to the event. That time was now.

"Remember, don't start conversation with anyone unless it's forced on you. If someone says 'hi,' just leave them alone," Nastasha said. Otacon picked up his wallet from the mess and opened it, checking his ID. His name did not read 'Hal Emmerich' any longer – at least, not in Russia, and not now. This was the second time he'd had to assume an alias through work with the Red Shirts. The first time had not ended well, but he hoped this would be different.

"Get as many pictures as you can, and show your ID to one of the American guards – _American_, Hal. Like planned, the building's fortified by an equal number of US Secret Service agents as it is Russian security officers. But, you're not going to find sympathy with any Russians. Once you're inside, save your shots for the hallways and balconies. We need to see everything that the President sees from the front door to the show floor."

Otacon found a sweater vest and pulled it over the clothes he was wearing. Then, he put a cap on his head and slung a camera around his neck. Nastasha pulled a card from her front right pocket and slipped it to him. Attached to it was a long cheap chain. He hung it around his neck as well. The card showed a picture of Otacon smiling ridiculously with a camera around his neck, and along the side of the picture were the words 'White House Associated Press – Personnel #1603.' And lastly, he grabbed the tattered cloth out of his shirt pocket and unraveled it.

Nastasha disappeared from the doorway and he held the cloth in his hands, and he remembered where he'd gotten it from. Standing in Battery Park as the Triborough Bridge and Trebeca Sector A exploded into flames. And then, just afterwards, as they were parting ways – Snake going with Fox and Raiden to the Zero District – Snake tore his bandana down the center and handed Otacon a half of it. 

A tear slipped down his cheek, but he wiped it away. He sniffed once and cleared his throat, crumpled up the bandana and slipped it into his pant pocket. Slipping a pair of sun glasses into his other pant pocket, he left the room. The wider room, where that single table sat with that single phone on it, had two more doors in its walls. One went to a bathroom, and the other opened into the hallway. Nastasha stood in the bathroom, the door open wide, looking at herself in a smeared mirror that hung over a rusting sink. She saw Otacon stop over her shoulder in the mirror.

"Good luck, Hal," he said, her lips just barely breaking into a smile. Otacon tipped the little cap on his head and went to the door leading into the hall. He turned the knob and walked out, and Nastasha just remained in the bathroom for a while longer, and when Otacon took the stairwell down to the first floor and stepped out onto the sidewalk, someone else – someone that no one knew of, someone that had been sleeping in the shadows of Moscow for the past two weeks, watching Nastasha and Otacon and monitoring their contact with Raiden – turned out of an alley and began walking after him, keeping enough distance to appear unsuspicious.

And someone else, an invisible voice hidden behind the walls of the apartment buildings across from Nastasha's and Otacon's residence, slithered through the person's ear as he followed after Otacon. "Keep your distance. And don't do anything rash. We're just wallflowers now."

~*~

Snake and Liquid and Spectral stopped at the end of the hall and looked around the corner, down the left corridor.

There were no Spetsnaz, no wayward soldiers who had escaped the slaughters of Spectral. The hall was silence and cold and the air did not move. A taste of staleness, however, lingered along the corridor as they turned down it and began walking. Liquid was walking easily, but the wound in his ankle was making it hard for him to continue on. He grit his teeth and clenched his fists, but he did not stop walking even as the blood was still trickling out of him and drawing a shaky line along the dusty cement floor. Snake had, however, managed to quell most of the bleeding by wrapping a piece of cloth around the wound. Still, every step was a sharp and searing stab in Liquid's ankle, and every moment he felt near to fainting.

But, Liquid didn't do that. He didn't faint. Snakes didn't collapse under their burdens. That was what made them so unique. No matter the handicaps, they didn't stop. They carried all the stress, all the tension, all the physical beatings. They were the purest and most ingeniously architected soldiers in the entire world. It was no surprise the NSA had wanted one more still.

When they came to the end of the hall there was a door ahead of them, a door to their left, and a door to their right. Over the door on their left was an old sign that read 'Kiergen'. Over the door ahead of them was a sign that read 'The Walls'. And over the door to the right was another archaic sign that read 'Ivan.' That name was familiar to all three of them.

"Ocelot?" Liquid said aloud with a sort of mocking humor in his tone. "He used to go by General Ivan…that bastard." Liquid looked down at his ankle and winced very slightly, then sucked a string of air through his teeth and shook the pain away. Snake readied the SOCOM in his hand and looked to the door on their left.

"Did anyone know a Kiergen?" Snake asked. Neither Liquid nor Spectral had. They both shook their heads and redirected their attention to the door ahead of them. "The Walls…that sounds a bit strange – certainly no one's name." Snake stepped back down the hall a few feet and looked over his shoulder to see if there was anything different at the other end. "So, what're we thinking?"

Liquid spun the SOCOM in his hand and pointed it toward the left door. Then, squeezing his finger on the trigger, he fired a round through the knob, Spectral proceeding to kick it off its hinges and send it slamming down on the floor. Snake made sure that when he smiled now, it didn't show to Spectral and Liquid. He couldn't let them know he was having fun.

The three of them piled into the room, and when they flicked on a light they saw what they were standing inside. It was an office, it seemed, but there was blood splashed on the walls, and two corpses lying face-down on the floor. Spectral seemed to remember something suddenly, and turned to Snake with a strange smile. "Sorry, it got a little out of hand in here."

"What?" Snake asked. "Is this your work?" It was funny how they called murdering 'work.'

"Yea," Spectral answered. "Come here," he said, and he led them back out of the room and to the door that read 'The Walls'. Turning the knob, that which was unlocked, he pushed the door open and greeted a great gust of freezing air. Snake and Liquid followed him through the doorway and into a long wide hall that ran perpendicular to the one they were all ready in. Stretching off to the left and to the right, there were a number of wide rectangular windows cut out of the wall, but they'd all been boarded up – all but one.

"I came in through there," Spectral said, walking to the square window with some of the wood planks busted apart. "This used to be a vantage point for the guards. Imagine if the wall wasn't boarded up – you'd have a corridor open to the frozen lake about a hundred feet below. If anyone attempted to infiltrate the building, you'd see them coming from a couple miles away. They kept this place pretty secure."

Snake walked to the opening Spectral had come through and stuck his head out of it, looking along the face of the cliff that fell down and leveled at the lake. Gray tracks ran down the face of the cliff, metal slants outlining the shape of a tunnel, as if for something to travel from the lake to the top of the cliff. "What's that?" he asked.

"Elevator tracks," Spectral answered. "They're out of commission right now, but if we could reach the power controls for this wing of Trinket, we could probably give it some juice. There's an entrance to the hangar for Metal Gear at the base of the cliff. It's a heavily fortified door, but if we were able to start up the elevator, we'd be able to unlock some doors."

Snake nodded and left the room. Liquid and Spectral followed him back into the hall. "So," Liquid began, "do we have _any idea where the controls are?"_

"As a matter of fact, I stumbled over them on my way in," Spectral said with a smile. Opening the door to General Ivan's office, as soon as he stepped inside there was an explosion in his ear and a brief wave of static. He grabbed his ear and looked at Snake and Liquid. "Forgot about that. From here on out, I don't think Codec will be a very reliable method of communication."

"Jamming," Snake said.

"Damn those commies," Liquid said, grinning. Snake laughed, but his face quickly became hard and grim. "Well, brother, aren't you going in?" Snake raised a finger to his lips and felt the pain in his arm, where he'd been grazed by a bullet from Spectral's gun, return very intensely. Then, footsteps were heard, and a door – one directly at the opposite end of the hallway – came flying open. And there, at the end of the hall, stood both Crais and Turkish, their bodies battered and bleeding. They did not look well, but they carried two hand guns each, which begged to differ.

"I've got a hand on him," Liquid said quickly, pointing his SOCOM at Snake and grabbing that which was in Snake's hand, acting as if holding him hostage. Spectral, who had all ready entered General Ivan's office, slid further inside and made himself disappear. "Did Ocelot send you?" Liquid asked, trying to keep the mood light. He had to play Snake off as an enemy or else Crais and Turkish would have to use their guns.

"That's right," Crais growled. "He was worried about you. Frankly, so were we. We were very afraid that this Snake may have gotten the better of you." Liquid frowned upon this.

"Surely, you aren't so bold as to claim him a better warrior right before my face?" Liquid hissed. "Just take him to Ocelot. I'm going to have a smoke before I join you, I think."

"With what cigarettes?" Turkish asked. Liquid hadn't been issued any cigarettes from Ocelot when he'd been returned. But as he pulled a pack from his pocket and held it up for them, Snake turned his head around in recognition.

"Funny, my favorite brand would show up in your hands," Snake said with indignation. Liquid laughed crazily.

"Well, of course I stole them from you, brother," Liquid said. "Here," he flipped open the pack and offered it out to Crais and Turkish. Reluctantly, Turkish took one from the pack after holstering one of his guns – a Hammerli – and pulled a lighter out of his pocket after holstering his second gun – a Marker. Crais took one more cigarette after holstering one of his dual USPs and waited for Turkish to hold up the light. Liquid, however, didn't wait for anyone.

"Let's smoke 'em," he said quietly to Snake, and they both grinned brightly. Liquid dropped a SOCOM into Snake's hand, and they both stepped back a little to take aim. It only took them a matter of seconds to fire off two rounds each – straight into Crais and Turkish's chests, sending them onto their backs, their eyes wide and the cigarettes toppling out of their mouths and burning out on the floor.

Turkish, life still beating in his chest, grabbed his Hammerli from his holster and jumped onto his feet, aiming it at Snake. He popped off a round, but Snake was dodging right, through the doorway into Kiergen's office, and landed haphazardly on his back before getting up and finding a safe position behind a file cabinet soaked in blood. Liquid had dodged left into Ivan's office at the same time as Snake had gone the other way, and they waited for a moment until Turkish and Crais had both stood again, their shirts torn to reveal heavy Kevlar vests underneath.

"What are you doing, Liquid?!" Crais hollered as loudly as he could, and when he had become quiet, something had burst through the air and landed on his face. He stumbled back, but Turkish saw nothing before them. Neither Snake nor Liquid had come back into the hall. But when Crais was standing evenly again, he felt a weight lifted from his left holster, and as he saw the USP slip from the holster, he saw it disappear into nothing. And then, he felt a hand wrap under his chin and the nose of a USP – his USP – press against his temple. He gagged and dropped his other USP to the floor.

Turkish turned to face him, aiming his Hammerli and his Marker at Crais. "What the fuck?!" he cried to Crais, but another voice shook out of the air, then.

"Liquid – try the closet."

In General Ivan's office, a perfectly arranged room, no files out of place or cabinets toppled over, Liquid spotted the closet doors behind the long oak desk. The room looked a lot like the one at Shadow Moses where Psycho Mantis had bled to death. Opening the closet doors, Liquid found more than he'd expected to find.

On the back wall of the closet were gray instruments and switchboards and lights, but to the left of the controls was a very narrow hallway, and when he passed through the tight quarters, he found himself in a wider lobby area, and before him was an indoor elevator, beside which read a sign – 'Hangar.' A broad smile stretched across his face and he hurried back through the narrow hall and to the controls on the back wall of the closet.

"What is it I'm looking for?" he said in a loud voice.

"There will be a master switch somewhere. We want to shut off everything, then turn everything on one-by-one – starting with the elevator. We'll give it the power first, so that we're sure it's working. If I understand the mechanics of the place, all the power-locked doors are accessed through a separate control panel, so as to ensure that they're secure. But, we should have some time, after shutting down and rebooting, to get through. The backup power they run on will most-likely delay any locking systems for a few seconds to a few minutes. So that's our window."

"How do we plan on doing this?" Snake asked, stepping into the hall and holding his gun on Turkish. "Put it down," he said, and Turkish dropped it. "First, we reboot. Then, we get the elevator running. Then, we turn everything else on and race to the elevator, take it down to the lake, and get into the hangar – that's going to take too long."

"Then we split up," Liquid said, once he found the main switch. Then, he came back to the hall. "If found another elevator that leads to the hangar. The two of you can get on the other one and come in from the lake. I'll use this one – they won't be expecting anyone through your door. I'll just stall. Sound good?" Spectral and Snake nodded, though Spectral was still invisible. "Good, then we kill these guys first and get to it."

Liquid raised his SOCOM and fired a round into Turkish's forehead. He crumpled to the floor and Snake looked at Liquid furiously. "What're you doing?" he growled.

"They won't work as hostages, because Ocelot won't care if they're dead. And if we keep them around, they can only make trouble. So, we kill them, and it's over with."

Crais began to struggle against Spectral's grip on him, but Liquid took aim with his SOCOM and put a bullet in his face. Spectral loosened his grip and Crais slid down to the floor. Snake grabbed Liquid's arm and stared him in the eye. He wanted to say something, but he didn't. He couldn't jeopardize their alliance right now. If any sides were to change, they couldn't change now. Not so close to the end.

"Let's go," Snake said, letting his hand off of Liquid's arm and forcing his anger aside. He had committed murder countless times, but he had never favored slaughter. And what Liquid had done, killing those two without a second thought, was slaughter. They were not armed, they were not retaliating – they were sitting ducks.

"Remember, brother, moments ago they were trying to kill us both," Liquid said. "You know as well as I that they could not have aided us. Besides, we have much bigger things to worry about, haven't we?"

"Right," Snake said, and he put his hand on Spectral's shoulder – something that was actually quite strange, for Spectral was still in stealth. "Take us to the elevator," he said to Spectral. "Good luck, Liquid."

"You too, brother," he said with a strange smile, and he turned his back and entered Ivan's office again. Then, Spectral flickered back to reality and led Snake to the Walls. They opened the door and felt the gust of cold wind bite at their skin again, but they were warm from the run-in with Crais and Turkish. The cold air was not enough to chill them now.

Spectral led Snake to the left and they continued on for a matter of seconds before coming to the door of the elevator – a long, tall, metal door. They stood there in silence for a moment before Snake snapped his finger and cursed. "Dammit! Liquid has my smokes!"

Just then, the power blinked off. They could hardly tell, for there was no electricity running along the Walls, but a low murmur had disappeared. Just seconds later, a panel to the right of the elevator door with two white buttons on it, came to life – a small white light blinking on above the buttons. Snake and Spectral looked at each other and nodded. Spectral pressed the 'down' button and they waited as the clanking of some very large thing became steadily louder and louder. And as it came nearer, the clock ticked down. The lock on the door at the base of the cliff would be enabled sometime soon, and they had no idea when.

The elevator buzzed and the long, tall, metal door slid to the right. And there was a single platform, completely exposed to the wind and the snow and the ice. Snake and Spectral ran onto it and Spectral pressed a button on another panel to close the doors. They took a few seconds to come shut, but when they did the platform began to move down the elevator tracks – descending, slowly, to the frozen lake.

As it continued down, Snake looked out over the lake and saw the slightest glimmer of sunlight die out in the sky. Even as day was rising, the dark gray clouds did not lift, and the snow continued to fall on them. It looked almost the same as it would at night. And Snake liked that.

And as he drifted down, he remembered that as soon as he passed into the hangar he would loose all communication with Fox or Brant or Desperado – or anyone outside of Trinket. But, when he had the sense to ring them on Codec, the elevator had stopped on the floor of the lake. Spectral was all ready running ahead, and he followed him. And there, almost hidden against the rock wall, was a door. But, it had no handle, no key slot – nothing.

Without waiting for them to open on their own, Spectral pressed his fingers between the crease of the two doors – they came together like those of a normal elevator – and began to slide them apart. And they moved easily, without a lock to deny them access. Snake helped, and once they had made a gap wide enough for both of them, they slipped inside. It wasn't for another twenty seconds that the locking mechanism was powered on and the doors came crashing shut.

And when they _had come shut, Snake and Spectral found themselves in a long dim hallway. Snake turned to Spectral and sighed. "I guess we're walking from here." That was when his Codec fizzled out and went dead. "And I guess we're on our own." Out of contact again._

It would be radio silence from then on.


End file.
